Tears of cold eyes

Chapter 7

C.~Diary

Chianell

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My Dearest Future Self, (if you even bother to read this!)

A pox on this day! It has been most dreadful. Helen, my supposed best friend – supposed being the key word here – has behaved most abominably. It all began with the… tea and cakes gathering at my mother's. I confess, I felt quite poorly. A wretched cold, coupled with my cursed allergy to the autumn chill, left me sneezing and sniffling like a guttersnipe. Therefore, I did not extend an invitation to Helen. A simple note would have sufficed, I know, but my pride, alas, got the better of me. A most regrettable lapse in judgment.

This evening, I witnessed a most unpleasant scene. Helen and that simpering Miss Abigail were engaged in whispered conversation, their faces alight with a most unseemly glee. I overheard snippets of their discourse – words like daggers to my heart. They called me selfish, inconsiderate, a friend unworthy of their acquaintance! My own dearest friend! The audacity!

My tears flowed freely, staining my pillow. I feel utterly forsaken, adrift in a sea of unkindness. The chill of the evening penetrates me, mirroring the icy coldness that has settled upon my soul. I am bereft of friends, of confidantes, of anyone to share my burden. This diary is my only solace, a flickering candle in the encroaching darkness.

I yearn for the warmth of genuine friendship, a bond untainted by treachery. Will I ever find such a connection, future self? Will this desolate loneliness ever abate? I fear the answer is a resounding nay.

Do tell me, future self, did I ever find solace? Did my wretched allergy ever relent its grip? Did I discover a true friend, one worthy of my affection? I long to know.

Your despondent past self,

Chianell

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Dearest Self,

If you are reading this, it means I, your younger, infinitely more foolish self, have somehow managed to survive long enough to scribble these words onto paper. I pray you are happier than I am at this moment. Oh, Self, the loneliness! It claws at me, a relentless beast gnawing at my very soul. This grand house, with its endless echoing halls and portraits of stern-faced ancestors, feels less like a home and more like a gilded cage.

Mother is busy, always bustling about with a thousand concerns. I know she loves me, but her attention is fleeting, snatched between managing the household and attending to Father's needs. It's not coldness, I think, but simply a lack of time, a whirlwind of duties that leaves little room for the quiet moments a daughter craves. Father… Father is preoccupied with matters of state, matters I do not understand, matters that leave me feeling utterly insignificant, a mere shadow flitting through the periphery of his life. My sisters, with their giggling and whispered secrets, exclude me. They are like birds, flitting from one bright thing to another, leaving me rooted to the spot, a wilting flower in a vase forgotten on a dusty shelf.

The world outside these walls frightens me. The whispers of the servants, the shadowed alleys, the faces that seem to judge me silently from behind drawn curtains… it all feels menacing, a constant threat to my fragile peace. I long for a friend, a true confidante, someone who understands the turmoil that rages within me, someone who doesn't see only the fine silks and the carefully arranged curls, but the trembling heart beneath.

Tonight, I wept. Not the usual quiet, stifled sobs, but a torrent, a deluge of unshed tears. And as the warm, salty liquid streamed down my face, a strange realization dawned upon me. My tears, Self, are warmer than my laughter. My laughter, forced and brittle, feels like a thin veneer over a deep well of sorrow. My tears, however, are genuine, a raw expression of the pain that consumes me. They are a testament to the depth of my feelings, a stark contrast to the shallow gaiety expected of me.

Perhaps, dear Self, you will understand. Perhaps, in your future, you've found solace, companionship, a measure of peace that eludes me now. If so, please tell me how. Tell me how to tame this beast of loneliness, how to find warmth in my laughter, and how to navigate this treacherous world without feeling so utterly, hopelessly alone.

Your despairing younger self,

Chianell.

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Future Self,

My hand trembles as I write his name – Dionysius Luke Xamenia. The very syllables stir within me a tempest of conflicting emotions; adoration and despair dance a precarious waltz upon my heart. How it began is of little consequence; what weighs heavily upon my soul is the cruel distance that separates us.

He remains ever before me, a sun amongst the lesser stars, a beacon of light encircled by a multitude of flickering flames. I catch glimpses of him – at a social gathering, perhaps, or during a promenade – invariably surrounded by a bevy of giggling girls, their eyes alight with admiration. He is the epitome of grace, extending his courtesies to all, yet does he truly see them as he, perchance, once saw me? I harbour grave doubts. His very presence commands attention; the set of his jaw, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead, the elegant curve of his lips… all contribute to an almost unbearable handsomeness.

His captivating hazel green eyes, those windows to a soul I long to know, hold a depth that draws me in, and that endearing dimple, appearing only when he smiles, is a captivating imperfection that renders him even more alluring. His handsomeness is not merely superficial; it’s a blend of refined features, effortless elegance, and an undeniable charm that sets him apart. He is, quite simply, breathtaking.

The torment is unbearable! To know that he exists, so near yet impossibly far, is to be consumed by a silent passion, a hidden flame that threatens to consume me entirely. I yearn to engage him in conversation, to unravel the mysteries of his thoughts and aspirations, but a nervous flutter in my chest keeps me silent. What if I say something foolish? What if he finds me tiresome? The thought of rejection hangs over me like a dark cloud, making even the smallest interaction feel like scaling a treacherous mountain.

It's not just fear; it's a gnawing uncertainty. Am I merely a pretty face, quickly forgotten amongst many? The thought pricks at my confidence, whispering doubts that threaten to unravel my composure. Sometimes, I catch myself staring, lost in the captivating sight of him, only to blush furiously when our eyes meet.

Oh, future self, what course of action did I pursue? How did I bridge this chasm that divided me from the object of my affections? Did I capture the attention of Dionysius Luke Xamenia, that captivating beacon, that sun amongst the stars? I long for you to tell me; did my hopes find fruition, or did despair win the war? I hope you can look back on this with fondness and perhaps a smile. Until then, I remain a silent admirer, my heart a battlefield where hope and despair wage a relentless war.

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