All is left is to ring the bell (fruk)

Il a été écrit il y a longtemps

Once Arthur closed the door, I found myself looking around his study. I couldn't believe he was going to leave me here alone...for twenty minutes. Of course! He never knew how to treat a guest, despite being taught manners.

He made me sad, and I tried. At least, I liked to think that I tried. I tried to be okay with him. However, I am constantly reminded of how much I love him whenever I look at him. His brother kissing me set our relationship back farther than it seemed. I was, once again, exclusively his fellow nation.

Which is a terrible relationship to be in. Especially if you like the person. Which I do! And I hate it!

I stood up from my seat to stretch and began looking at his vast bookshelf. There were parts of it labelled with dates, making me wonder what they were.

I slowly walked over to one end of the shelf, looking at the date. "Hmmm? Eighteen thirty?" I spoke. I reached for a book, opening it up slowly. The feeling of the old book against my hands felt rough. The pages were so brittle I was worried I would rip it. Honestly, why does he have an old book like this sitting out? It must be in a certain climate to last long unless he wants the book to worsen.

I looked at the first page, and to my surprise, I saw his handwriting.

These weren't regular books; these were his journals! Over the years.

I immediately closed the book, not to read it, and quickly placed it back into its spot. If I had read his journals, not only would he murder me, but I would have disrespected his privacy! I'm already on thin ice as it was.

I quickly sat back in my seat and anxiously pulled at my trousers. Then, something worse caught my attention.

I stood up a bit nervously, walking toward the date on the bookshelf. It had the date 1941, the year after I was invaded in WWII. I couldn't help but walk up to the section and stare at it blankly.

For years I had wondered what was going through his mind during that time. That period was a ripple effect that has affected both of us today. I was tempted.

I pulled out the first book, staring at it. It was old but not as brittle as the other one I touched. It was cold and had a few pages sticking out. I wouldn't read any of it, but I just wanted to see how often he wrote during this time and if his writing was the outlet he needed.

I opened the journal slowly, and a piece of paper immediately fell out. I quickly picked it up to not lose it but froze once seeing who it was addressed to.

"To Francis..." I read. It caused me to get shivers up my spine, and my curiosity was getting the best of me. I held the letter and saw it wasn't sealed, only folded. It was a short letter...

Why would he write this letter? When? And why didn't he give it to me?

I placed the book on the shelf and opened the letter slowly.

"No! I shouldn't read it! There is a reason he didn't give it to me," I said to myself. The thoughts didn't stop. After all, I had written letters to him too, but none of them ever reached him. Well, that was what I assumed. I kept looking at the letter anxiously till I unfolded it.

I looked up to the ceiling, taking a deep breath out. "Just a quick read! I'm sure it's nothing," I laughed. As I moved my eyes toward the paper, this good and bad angel was sitting on my shoulders. One told me to stop, while the other urged me to keep going.

And I was.

So I began to read.

"Dear Francis,

I am writing this letter to you, as I have been, because I write in hopes you will see it one day. Or maybe hear me say what's on my mind. It has been five-hundred and sixty-one days since I lost you. That is eight hundred and seven thousand, eight hundred and forty minutes. That is forty-eight million four hundred and seventy thousand and four hundred long and continuous counting seconds.

Yesterday, I saw someone I thought was you. He was a random man, but from behind, his hair looked as you kept it. I had frozen seeing them, and instead of feeling happy that I could have seen you, I felt sad. They were not you, after all.

The moon feels blue on nights I continue to think about you. My dearest Francis, I think of you daily. Writing that down is an understatement. I think of you too much. I may not be vocal, but I think of you constantly. I wish I could be open about it, but I feel no one would understand how I truly feel.

I wouldn't feel whole until you were in my arms again. I've been trying to gather everything to save you, but I fear it won't be enough. You have, even in absence, held onto my heart. I truly believe that once I see you again, not only will I fight the urge to slap you, but I will make sure that my feelings will be buried deep into the end of this war.

These feelings have been stressful in your absence, and I can only take so much. Francis, you are everything and more to me, but I need to let these feelings go. I can't keep going like this because it hurts me. Maybe, I am hoping, that the longer you are gone, the faster I can move on.

You will still always be a dear friend to me, but I can no longer give you my heart the way a lover would give their body a kiss. If I see you one day, I wonder if showing you this letter would be idiotic. That would mean I would have confessed and rejected you all in one sitting.

Well...the confession part is true.

My dearest, I look forward to seeing you face to face. If not in life, then hopefully in death. I believe that dying, knowing I'd see you again, would be better than living eternity without you. I love you like the butterflies love flowers in spring. You are everything and more I could ever ask for, and I need to see you once more.

Once more before I let my feelings go. I want you to cry in my arms as I hold you. I want to hear you say thank you and tell me you love me. That is all I ask; that's all I need. I worry that if I continue writing, I won't ever stop because I have so much I want to say.

This paper is a representation of you, and my pen is me. I write you with the utmost adoration. I sincerely hope that if I never lose my feelings, I can gather the courage to tell you them. However, I have a feeling I know how that would go.

Be well, My Darling

Arthur"

My eyes widened as I finished reading.

What the fuck—

"FRANCIS! I didn't ask what kind of tea you wanted!" The door suddenly opened, but I was too dumb to do anything. Arthur looked at me dumbfounded. He looked down at the letter, then up to my eyes. Then...it only got worse.