Between the Folded Pages

Letter 2: October 8, 1983 - From William to Elise

My Dearest Elise,

Your letter arrived yesterday afternoon, folded neatly like the secret of some ancient treasure. The sight of your handwriting—softly slanted, as if each word were leaning toward me—stilled everything. For a moment, even London seemed to hush: the clatter of the rain against the window, the bustle of the street below, the ever-present grumble of the city. It was as though the universe itself paused to honor the arrival of your words.

I am writing to you now at my desk in the Bloomsbury flat, surrounded by the chaos you’d expect—teacups with rims stained the color of autumn leaves, books stacked precariously like drunkards leaning on each other for balance, and sheets of paper scattered across the floor, each one bearing fragments of ideas I can’t seem to complete. I think you’d love the mess of it, though you’d cluck your tongue and insist on organizing my shelves as you always did when you were here. I can still picture you standing there, arms crossed, that half-smile on your lips as you surveyed my disarray like a general preparing to conquer enemy territory.

I should tell you what I’m wearing since you were kind enough to describe your ensemble. It’s nothing as romantic as your silk skirt or that sweater you so sweetly claimed still carries my scent. (How is it that even my sweater sounds more poetic in your hands?) I’m in my usual uniform: a white shirt—slightly wrinkled, I’ll admit—and a navy vest. No tie today; I couldn’t bear the feeling of constraint. My hair is a bit wild, as I’ve been running my hands through it all morning in frustration. I can almost hear you now, teasing me for “looking like a disheveled professor from some gothic novel.”

This morning, I wandered through Russell Square, hoping the fresh air might jolt me out of the stupor I’ve been in since you left. The park was drenched in rain, the grass a deep emerald, the air sharp and brimming with that unmistakable smell of wet earth. I bought a newspaper from a vendor by the fountain, though I didn’t read it. Instead, I sat on a bench beneath a sycamore tree, letting the drizzle soak through my coat, and thought of you. Always you.

You asked if I feel the ache of our distance. The answer, Elise, is yes—yes, a thousand times over. It is a constant, gnawing thing, like a hunger that no feast can sate. There are moments, fleeting but sharp, when I find myself reaching for you as if you were just out of sight. Yesterday, while tidying my bookshelf (yes, I attempted tidying for once), I stumbled upon that photograph of us in Montmartre—the one the bookseller insisted on taking. Do you remember? You’re smiling that impossibly bright smile of yours, your hand resting on my shoulder, and I look as though I’ve just stumbled into a dream. I must’ve stared at it for half an hour, tracing your face with my fingertips, wondering if you were doing the same somewhere in Paris.

Elise, you asked me to tell you everything, so here it is: I’ve been working on a translation of Lorca’s poetry. It’s slow going, but the process feels like unearthing jewels from deep beneath the earth. His words remind me of you—raw, luminous, infinitely complex. Here, let me share a line that struck me: “I want to sleep the dream of the apples, to withdraw from the tumult of cemeteries.” I’ve been turning that phrase over in my mind for days, imagining what it might mean to you. You always did have a way of uncovering the hidden heart of a poem.

As for the rest of my days, they’ve been filled with the small, unremarkable rhythms of life. I take my tea with too much sugar, miss the bus more often than not, and spend far too much time brooding over your letters instead of working on my dissertation. (Yes, I can hear your laugh even now—your poet, eternally distracted!) The evenings are the hardest, Elise. That’s when the loneliness settles in like fog, wrapping itself around everything, dulling the edges of the world. I often sit by the window, watching the lights of the city blur into the distance, and wonder if you’re looking at the same stars. Does the sky above Paris feel as vast and lonely to you as it does to me here?

You mentioned the dream you had, the one where we were on a rowboat. How strange, Elise, for I too dreamt of water not long ago. In my dream, we were standing on the deck of an old ship, the wind tearing at our clothes, the sea churning beneath us. You were holding my hand, your grip firm, as though you feared I might slip away. I woke with the taste of salt on my lips, my heart aching with the weight of your absence.

The days without you, my love, are like pages torn from a book—fragmented, incomplete. I find myself collecting small relics of you wherever I go: a flower pressed between the pages of a journal, a stray lock of hair I discovered on the collar of my coat, even the faint imprint of your kiss on the rim of a teacup you left behind. These things sustain me, though they are but shadows of the real thing. What I wouldn’t give to feel your hand in mine, to trace the curve of your cheek with my thumb, to whisper in your ear all the things I struggle to put into words.

Before I close, let me leave you with a line from Neruda, one that feels as though it was written for us: “I can write the saddest lines tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.” But I am not writing sad lines, Elise, for our love is not a thing of sadness. It is fierce and bright, a fire that burns even in the coldest nights. And though we are apart, I carry you with me in everything I do, in every breath I take.

Write to me soon, my Elise. Your words are my compass, my anchor, my solace. Until then, I will hold you in my heart, where you have always belonged.

Yours,

William