There is something rather foolish in writing a letter to someone I see every day—but I have found, of late, that some thoughts sit quieter on the page than they do when trapped in my throat. And if I do not give them space somewhere, I fear they may take root in me entirely.
I ought not begin with a confession, and yet—I knew it was you. The jar of lemon candies left on my desk (which I have already made the mistake of rationing too quickly), the stitching upon Manfred’s coat, the embroidery of a skull so charming he insists on wearing it backward to display it. You did not sign your name to any of it, and still, you may as well have. The forget-me-not perfume lingers. Manfred, of course, is a terrible conspirator.
I wish I knew how to thank you properly. Every time I try, you blush so brightly I lose the thread of whatever I meant to say. You look away. You act like it was nothing.
But it isn’t nothing, Rowan.
You are thoughtful in a way most people never even attempt to be. You give without asking, help without waiting to be seen. You notice everything, and yet you seem surprised when someone notices you in return.
Every day, I notice you. The way you care for Manfred like he’s more than just bone and magic. The way you tilt your head when you’re listening, like you’re trying to memorize every word. The crease between your brows when you concentrate. The way your whole face softens when you laugh.
You make the world feel quieter. Better.
Darling, I must admit that I have hesitated to write you at all. Not for lack of things to say, but rather for the risk of saying them before I ought. There are... matters I have not yet spoken of. Choices I have made that I fear might alter how you see me, and I find myself uncharacteristically unwilling to risk it. I do not think I could bear a change in your expression. I would rather suffer in silence than be the cause of your retreat.
I will not say more now. I have already said too much. But please know this—your presence is a balm I did not know I lacked. When you are near, the silence within me becomes gentler. And when you are gone, I find myself listening for the sound of your laughter just in case it might echo back.
Until I may speak more freely,
Yours, in thought and affection—
Emmrich
