Edinburgh is for Lovers (l.s.)

ix.

March

Louis tugged his jacket off and hung it by the door as he stepped into his flat, late in the afternoon. He'd been back teaching at the university since mid January, and he was actually quite enjoying being back. During the day he's been finding himself happier, able to smile and laugh with his students and coworkers. It's been a truly wonderful distraction from his racing thoughts and constant self doubt.
It'd been three months since Louis finished writing his book, and it has been sitting on his desk, unedited, daunting, since the end of December. He had a list of publishing companies in Edinburgh on a notepad right next to his story, and he hadn't called any of them. Outside of school, he hadn't been writing. He'd only been reading and grading his students' work, purposefully avoiding putting his own work out there.
He'd doubted a few times whether or not he even still wanted to publish his book. It was so open, raw, clearly about homosexual love. He was terrified. Terrified to get rejection letters, because who would actually publish a book like his? Who would actually want to read it except the men that it's about? And neither of them are in his life anymore... He's terrified that even though he used a pen name, people would find out that he wrote it. He was terrified of losing his job at the university. So he'd left his story untouched. He'd decided to focus on teaching his classes, and focus on making it through the spring term.

One day, late march, Louis decided he needed to write again. Not a book, or even a poem, but a letter. He'd taught his last class for the week and walked home with his bag heavy, full of creative writing drafts from his students that he had to read and grade over the weekend. He set his bag on the kitchen counter when he got home and made himself a quick cuppa before situating himself on the couch, student drafts and red pen in hand.
Louis got about halfway through grading his students' work before he called it a night. He set the papers aside and moved to his desk. His own book still lay on the corner of the desk, untouched. He sighed and sat down at the desk, letting his fingers run over the title of his printed draft.
He pulled open one of the desk drawers and grabbed a blank post card paper. He turned it over and over between his hands before setting it down and picking up Harry's pen.

Dear Harry,

It's March already.
I'm not sure how we got here already when the winter felt so long.
Happy belated birthday. I didn't forget.
I may have even gone to the shops and bought a bottle of that whiskey we had that last night.
Cheers to twenty seven, darling.

I've gone back to teaching four days a week at the university. It's been quite nice, actually.
Distracting, if nothing else.
I finished my book. Back in December. I've not sent any publisher inquiries though.
Perhaps soon I'll be brave enough to do that.
I hope you're well. That you're happy, content.
I'll leave this unsent, I supposed. It donned on me awhile ago that I don't have any way to actually contact you. It feels a shame.
I think of you often. Miss you often.
Always in my heart.

Love, Louis

Louis sighed and snapped the cap back on Harry's pen and set it aside. He looked at the card in front of him; a permanently empty address line.
Alright. He sighed and stood from the desk, shoving the letter back in the drawer, and headed to the kitchen to make himself supper.