Between the Folded Pages

Dearest William, It is twilight here in Paris, and the city is steeped in that peculiar glow of mauve and gold—like a painting caught between light and memory. I sit by the window of my little flat on Rue des Rosiers, the lace curtains swaying faintly in the autumn breeze. You would laugh if you saw me now: wearing that ridiculous oversized sweater you left behind last spring in Oxford, paired with a silk skirt entirely too delicate for this kind of chill. But I like how the wool smells faintly of you—like books, ink, and the faintest trace of cedar. I’ve tied my hair back in a loose braid, though I know you’d insist it’s lovelier when it falls freely. I imagine you now, on the other side of the Channel, perhaps at that small desk in your flat in Bloomsbury, your brow furrowed as you attempt to translate your thoughts into words. Do you still rest your glasses at the tip of your nose as you write? I can almost see the way your fingers would absently tug at your collar when lost in thought. Oh, how I miss you. Today, I walked to the Seine, clutching a battered copy of Rilke you gave me. Remember the inscription you wrote inside? “To Elise, who reads poems as if she’s reciting her own thoughts aloud.” I read the lines over and over while sitting on a cold stone bench, the book trembling slightly in my hands as a brisk wind danced through the streets. I could almost hear your voice in the rustle of the pages. Do you know, William, the river seemed lonelier today? As if it too felt your absence. It mirrored my mood—restless, yearning, scattered. I saw lovers strolling hand in hand, pausing to whisper secrets in one another’s ears. I envied them, not because they have love, but because their love has proximity. How cruel it is, this distance that keeps your hand from brushing against mine, your breath from stirring the air between us. Do you feel it too? This ache, like a tether pulled too tight, threatening to snap? Let me tell you about the little moments that filled my day, for I know how you crave the smallest of details. My morning began with coffee at the corner café—thick, bitter, and served in a chipped porcelain cup. I wore that green coat you once said made me look like “a walking forest,” and the barista called me “mademoiselle” with a smile so wide I felt obliged to smile back. The streets were alive with the smells of baking bread, wet cobblestones, and the faint metallic tang of autumn’s approach. I bought a baguette and a wedge of Camembert from the market, though I ate them alone, wishing you were there to share in the crumbs and laughter. Oh, William, do you remember the little bookstore we discovered in Montmartre last summer? The one run by that elderly man with spectacles so thick they magnified his eyes to an almost comical degree? I went back there today. He recognized me and asked after you. “Where is your poet?” he said. “The one with the kind eyes.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell him you were in London, wrapped in the chaos of your research. Instead, I smiled and told him you were well. He nodded, satisfied, and handed me a leather-bound volume of Baudelaire, saying, “For when your poet returns.” I haven’t told you this before, but sometimes, when the city grows too loud or too quiet, I write letters to you that I never send. They pile up in a small wooden box I keep beneath my bed, each one filled with words I don’t quite know how to say. They are fragments, really—pieces of my heart scattered on the page. One day, perhaps, I’ll show them to you, though I suspect you already know their contents. After all, you’ve always understood me in ways I struggle to understand myself. And now, as I write this, the sky outside has turned the color of bruised lilacs. The streetlamps flicker to life one by one, their glow softening the edges of the world. A cat slinks along the rooftop opposite my window, its silhouette a dark smudge against the fading light. I wish you could see it. I wish you could see me. I long for the day when these letters are no longer necessary, when I can simply turn to you and say, “Look, William,” and know you are there to look with me. Before I close, I must tell you about a dream I had last night. We were sitting in a small rowboat on a lake shrouded in mist. You were reading aloud, though I couldn’t quite make out the words. Your voice was calm, steady, like the rhythm of the oars dipping into the water. When I asked what you were reading, you smiled and said, “It’s your story, Elise.” I woke with tears on my cheeks, though I couldn’t say if they were born of joy or sorrow. Perhaps both. Write to me soon, my love. Tell me everything—what you had for breakfast, what music you’ve been listening to, what dreams have visited you in the night. Your words are my lifeline, the bridge that spans this unbearable distance. Until they arrive, I will keep you close in my thoughts, my dreams, my every breath. With all my love, Elise