To my Dearest Friend

my old friend

Cyril Courtenay

Yves, my old friend,

I don't send you this letter to bargain with you. I don't send this letter to feel righteous, (I don't know if that is the truth if I were to be honest.) You'll most likely receive this letter long after I have sent it since I do not know where in Vienna you are staying. Yes, I suppose I could assume from all the times we've been there but I am quite sure that means I would risk this letter being lost. And I don't know if I could bear that burden, I couldn't bear that uncertainty.

I understand if you don't even want to open letters from me so I think I wouldn't mind if you would not read this. No, I am fooling myself, I wish you would read this. Because this is the truth Yves. I am frightened by the simple fact of loving you. I am worried about your future and no, I am not saying how kind and righteous I was to abandon you but I had my own unfair and incredibly stupid reasons. I knew you wouldn't ever leave me. But this secret we share it would damage you so much more that it would damage me. I could live with disgrace but when I think of your family my heart stops when thinking about the fact that that is your home. How could you live in disgrace with a family like that. I am not here to make excuses, you have the right to curse me. Even though I have discovered I still love you. It was easier to love here because I did not love him the frightening way I loved you. I am incredibly selfish, don't bother telling me that as I already know. but I suppose my point is, I never meant to break your heart. I meant to gentle pall it apart, and I have made terrible mistakes. I see that now, I have no control over any of this, I feel incredibly guilty about that.

Perhaps I had the hope you could give a normal life even with somebody as disruptive as I was. And to me it became clear that you couldn't, because you loved me just as dangerously as I did you. Yves. I have a very hard time to explain this to you, I have pain in my heart that weighs down on me and will always remind me of you. I think I have said what I wanted to say.

I did things that are unforgivable, but most of all I loved you and I thank you for that. Please don't forgive me, for your own good,

Cyril Courtenay.

I look at the acrostric ring he threw me when he was mad at me and trace my fingers over the precious stone. I close my eyes and see his kind smile floating through my imagination. I feel a tear in my eye. How can words on paper destroy another man's life. I hope he is alright, I wish he is alright, I hope he has hope, I hope he forgets about me. But I know that would be stupid to assume. I smile, I won't ever forget about him. I wish I had this clarity when he was still here but it seems I need to see things crumble before I begin to realise I am going way too far. I smile, I hate myself so much. What a hard time Yves must've had loving me, or trying to love me, how could he even love me. I close my eyes and remember the time we were at the beach not long before I left.

It was pretty warm and it was evening, the sun had been generously shining on the beach heating the warm sand that now embraced our feet. The sun was slowly drowning in the reality of the sea. Casting the world in it's pinkish orange light. He was standing there, with his feet in the cool water and his hair swaying with the gentle waves over the wind and water. It was a perfect portrait, it was an artwork of life. I knew I was going to leave him. My heart was screaming in silence, I wanted to have him forever. I wanted to be with him, I wanted him to be mine. He was mine, he was. I walked up to him. I saw a lone tear tracing the beauty of his face. The sand was still warming my feet. 'What a beautiful world we have.' I said, he nodded with melancholical happiness I extended my hand. 'Would you like to dance?' He smiles and so we we were dancing, all alone on the beach, forgetting to be scared of the soul and eyes of our society. It was like walking over water, it was like jumping through clouds. I wish that moment could've lasted forever. But alas, the real world called us...

So now I am sitting here, collecting my things to go back to England. I wonder how Émile is doing. I hope he is happy. I hope he is okay. I will send him a letter before I leave. I don't think he'll mind if I leave. Right? I hope we can still stay friends. I genuinely hope so. He was really kind. It seems that half of my life is clarity and the other half is so incredibly unknown to me, it's like stumbling through a dark room you've designed yourself. You should know it but everything seems to be different.

I smile as I look at the pictures I am cleaning up. So many faces I adore. It feels strange to leave Paris again but also good. It feels like I an accepting that I need to find myself again. And doing that at home is much safer and much better I think, I hope. Or perhaps I just want to return home because I will have the hope of running into him. But I won't dare to think about things like that. I smile. I've always said that my home was where he is, perhaps it's true, but don't kid yourself Cyril, his home is probably where you aren't.