Between the Folded Pages

Letter 10: November 30, 1983 – From Elise to William

William,

I am holding your letter now, the one where you say you will come to Paris, where you will stand on the bridge and wait for me. And though I should feel something—hope, relief, perhaps even joy—I am numb. Because today, another letter arrived, one I never expected, one that has turned everything I thought I knew about us on its head.

Julien came to see me this morning. He handed me an envelope, his face solemn, his voice low as he said, “I owe you the truth.” Inside was your letter. A letter meant for me, written months ago but kept from me by someone I trusted.

Do you know what it feels like, William, to read words that should have reached you long ago? Words that could have changed the course of your life, of our life? Your letter—the one you wrote before the silence, before the ache—was filled with the very things I had longed to hear. You spoke of leaving London, of starting anew in Paris. You wrote of your fears, yes, but also of your love for me, of your desire to close the distance between us.

And yet, I never received it. Julien kept it from me. He thought he was protecting me, that your indecision would hurt me more than your absence.

But, William, do you know what hurts most of all? The knowledge that you tried. That you wanted me. That you chose me, if only for a moment, and I never knew.

I have spent months believing that you were the one who hesitated, that you were the one who stayed silent. And now I find that it was not you at all, but the hand of someone else, someone who decided they knew what was best for me.

I don’t know what to feel, William. I don’t know who to blame—Julien for his interference, or myself for believing you never cared enough to take the leap.

And you—what do I do with you now? With your promises, your confessions, your plans to wait for me on a bridge that feels so far away from where I am standing?

I want to believe you, William. I want to believe that we can untangle this mess, that we can rewrite the story that others have tried to shape for us. But I am afraid. Afraid that this pattern will repeat itself, that we will always be two people separated by misunderstandings, by silence, by time.

I don’t know if I can come to the bridge. I don’t know if I can face you, knowing what I know now.

Yours, though I do not know what that means anymore,

Elise