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illicitivywp · 3 years

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mal de vivre.

The morning that Harry wakes up and you're not sleeping peacefully beside him is the worst of his entire life.

He can sense that you're not there. The air still circulates whiffs of your caramel shampoo and the breeze of your automatic fan that you always insist on leaving on all night still whirs leisurely and tickles the back of his neck.

Regardless, the room is vacant. He doesn't have to open his eyes to know that much.

For now, he remains entirely numb. Immune to the flooding sobs and intolerable agony and festering anger, he supposes it's in his best interest to stay like that for a while.

For a few days, at least. Until he can fully process your absence. He's not certain how long it takes the average person to wholly recognise an entire chunk of themselves missing, but he figures he's already suffered enough.

Surely, the universe isn't that cruel.

Your love is delightedly grand, and with its sudden unavailability, he feels so dejectedly vague.

He's clearly not perceiving time correctly, perhaps it's his distant concentration or maybe even his body's method of rejecting life and the wretched torture of its innate malice.

A few times, he's experienced sleep paralysis. The first, horrifying occasion is long-forgotten, when he was seven or so - it happened only after staying up until one in the morning to watch a horror movie that he'd been specifically warned not to watch and a towering vacuum of danger stood solid as stone at the end of his bed.

If it weren't for his fingertips subconsciously tracing featherlight scribes of your name on his forearm, he might reasonably assume he's haunted with the condition once again.

A clattering of paws on hard floorboards injects a little more reality into his thoughts, and he still can't bear, physically, to turn over and greet the sweet puppy you'd snuck home and surprised him with upon his arrival home from work around a year ago, knowing that his acceptance of a familiarly-shaped void is waiting just inches away.

Eventually, and after another chaotic scramble of claws in need of a cut, Chi is bouncing enthusiastically at his side and attempting an ambitious leap onto the mattress. She fails theatrically, landing in a resounding thud on her back and launching back to her feet, completely unaware of her owner's awaiting grief.

Masking his greatest fears with scooping a palm beneath Chi's belly and hauling her upwards to nestle into his chest, the reposition forces him to lay on his back (she's always detested laying on her side, especially when smothered with adoring cuddles) and, like the coward he truly is, his eyes focus adamantly on a random spot of the pale ceiling. With every minute shuffle, it becomes more and more achingly apparent that you're really not here.

And if everything runs correctly, you'll squirm and giggle graciously at his waking before returning his kiss, to his lips, this time, and he'll suggest applying a little moisturiser, like he always does, and you'll love him like you should.

When his eyelids snap open and his head curves breezily to your claimed side of the bed, he's somewhat unsurprised to confirm that his life truly has transformed to a dreadful bundle of tragedy. In your imposing place, is a neatly-made bed and an envelope.

A single, white envelope, stained by the sweet, flowing cursive that could flow only from your touch.

Chi leaps naturally to the spectacle, sniffing curiously at the letter and nudging it around a little, whilst Harry is so unexplainably pained that he's unable to move. Swallowing thickly, he's not certain word-for-word what lies in the confines of this envelope, but he does know it'll confirm your leaving him, and for some strange reason, he's relieved you left an explanation, at least.

A souvenir of you to hang onto forever, along with the millions of other items and memories of yours in his possession.

Carefully removing it from Chi's vicinity and replacing the object of her attention with a random squeaky toy that he'd discovered burrowed beneath his bed a few nights ago, he traces your exquisite handwriting with his fingertip and reads along with inaudible movements of his mouth; For Harry, mon amour.

In that moment, he realises profoundly that he'll never get to request hearing you say different words in your accent again.

The amount of times he implored relentlessly to hear je t'aime and have it accompanied with an endearing kiss is infinite.

Harry, my love,

I'm so incredibly sorry that I couldn't handle the pain.

Seeing your face cures any anguish I feel, but not this time.

I really, really tried; I know you did, too. I wanted it to work out, I prayed every day that our suffering would magically end and we could return to our love, I hoped that one day I would wake and cuddle you tightly and describe this awful nightmare I'd had.

Possibly, I may write to you in the future; please, don't try to contact me, it won't work and you know it's for the best. My family and close friends know where I am, where I will be, and they also know not to tell you if you ask.

I wish I could kiss all of your heartache away and protect you from all evil in this world, but I feel my presence is detrimental to your recovery.

My love for you is never-ending. Please be okay.

Forgive me and love someone else like you loved me. Let someone else love you like I loved you. Tellement, tellement.

Forever, I'll think of you and how unbelievably content I felt waking up next to you every day for seven-hundred and eighty (? - I'm estimating) mornings straight.

I will never, ever leave our love behind, and I adore you more than I can express. Your strength and resilience are admirable, and you are truly the best thing to ever happen to me.

Mon bébé, I miss you terribly.

Toujours, ton amour.

Chi tugs eagerly on her lead at the sight of the familiar entrance to her home, Harry in tow right behind. Sludgy snow muddies his shoes and soaks the hem of his jeans. His puppy's paws are undoubtedly drenched, too, but her fur is protected valiantly by her favourite jacket. He'd purchased it from a specialist store in France a year prior, and, since surprising her with the present upon his shared return, it'd become her primary option during the winter months.

Retrieving a reasonable pile of letters from his designated section, a rapid flick through displays bills, scams and all of the usual junk he usually receives. He offers his elderly neighbour a polite smile and holds open the door with his knee to construct a clear path for her exit.

He grimaces slightly at the teeth-shaped arc of damp dents into his mail - he hadn't particularly considered the repercussions of carrying it that way - and unclips Chi's lead, allowing her to run rampage through his airy apartment. Absently dropping his keys into its small dish of residence and taking a closer inspection at his post to infiltrate any wrong addresses or scams, he selects an apple from his fruit bowl and steals one firm chunk before noticing something peculiar.

Groomed eyebrows knitting together in confusion, he plucks one particular letter from the bunch and stacks it to the top. Perplexed by the sorely familiar curve of the writing scrawled on the front, his head shakes in denial - you wouldn't have, surely.

Discarding of all other mail on his kitchen counter, he's puzzled beyond belief; you'd left with no verbal warning and a letter that, admittedly, had been the source of several bouts of severe depression and, in spite of its awful affects, read dutifully every single day since your disappearance.

Rashly, he wishes you hadn't changed your phone number and email address shortly before leaving so he could possibly contact you regarding this mystery. However, he knows just as well as you clearly foresaw; his topic of discussion wouldn't be only the letter.

Tearing open the corner cautiously, he's incredibly delicate with checking inside the envelope once open to ensure it contains only his presumed note. Reviewing the front with a scouring gaze of disbelief, it really, truly has come from you.

He can't remember how many times he read each postcard that you'd gifted him with at the very beginning of your relationship. You'd recently made the permanent move from France to England, and, in a new country with limited knowledge of the native language, Harry had unintentionally become your beacon of comfort here.

With his fluent French and English, he was the perfect contender for kindly correcting your terminology and educating you on the essential etiquettes of Britain. Within weeks, however, your sweet smile had changed from an enjoyable sight during your frequent coffee shop meetings to something he craved.

He misses reading your silly, awful puns based around your home country, especially his favourite. A laughably unfunny joke paired with a matching scribble of the two of you; what do french fries do when they meet? They ketchup!

Harry,

I feel awful for waiting so long to speak to you again.

Your voice and your hugs. I've imagined them every single day.

I miss my Chi. How is she? I hope she's not missing her maman. Give her a kiss from me.

And the biggest kiss to yourself, because you deserve it, mon tout.

I'm inexplicably sorry for leaving so abruptly; I just couldn't take much more. The reminders were too much. Seeing your inconsolable pain every day was too much.

I'm so, so selfish, but I still believe allowing you to heal without my troubles was the best and easiest path for both of us.

I'm sure you noticed, but I may have stolen one of our pictures. It was your favourite, and that's why I had to choose that one, I suppose. Horrible, again.

I miss your dimples (and irritating you by poking them all the time). I miss your lips, they were so soft. No wonder you always bossed me around with the lip balm - I have my own now, I take it everywhere with me.

It smells like caramel.

Most of all, I miss your love. I've never known someone to love like you do. You were, are, and always will be, incredible.

Have you found someone to love yet?

Do you still think about me? If yes, please don't.

It's not fair of me to appear out of nowhere like this and not allow you a chance to reply. If you wish, post your letter to my maman's house - I'm not there, just to crush any other hope you have, but I'll receive it.

I'll be sorry forever, mon amour.

Sois gentil avec toi-même.

Câlins pour toujours, your baby.

Auriele,

I'm so thankful you decided to reach out again. I've missed you. Tellement, tellement.

Chi is brilliant, still eating everything and constantly in need of a haircut. She does miss you.

My hurt is still prevalent, I've accepted that it always will be. I truly don't believe it can be fixed again, but I'm still trying.

I spent the two weeks after your leaving searching for every single picture in existence of us. I cried so many times, I wish I could tell you that I'm wholly recovered and that you're fully forgiven, but I can't.

I think I counted them all. It's either three-hundred and seventy-seven or one-thousand, one-hundred and two (I have two sticky notes labelled pictures, I'm not sure which is correct.)

No one could ever love me like you do, tu es le meilleur.

I suppose that answers both of your questions.

Thank you for the chance to respond. I was incredibly confused when I received your thoughtful letter. I'm assuming by this one's destination being your maman's house, you're in France? You don't have to answer that. I would understand.

Mon bébé chéri, je t'aime.

Harry x

Harry,

It was the least I could do. I hurt you doubly and you never deserved that.

Tell her I love her. Buy her an ice cream for me (note the two dollars also enclosed in this envelope!)

There aren't enough apologies in the world to properly cover the extent of my mistakes, but I'll continue gathering as many as I can. And send them straight to you.

I also wish you could truthfully claim that you're okay, and I hope, with time, that you will be. It's all you ever deserved, mon chéri. You don't ever have to forgive me. I understand entirely if you hate me.

I wouldn't be surprised if those numbers were both low counts. I loved your face, as superficial as it sounds, but it truly was prettier than anything, and my favourite thing was always surrounding myself with it. Aussi longtemps que je pouvais.

My baby, I only tried my hardest to love you, and I sincerely hope I haven't ruined your idea of love so much that I'm your standard. Please, travel, find people to connect with, fall in love with a place, if not a person.

I bet Chi would love Spain. Australia, maybe? Thailand? Your choice entirely. You always were smarter than me (i.e. I left you - doesn't get much dumber.)

I am in France, feel free to ask any question you want about my current life if you decide to write back - you really don't have to. It's okay. You're still perfect.

Just not my address. It's so selfish of me to hide away from you when you're the one who deserves closure, but I'm not ready to share that information. Again, I'm sorry, and I hope you understand.

Tu me manques. Tu me manques ma maman et mon père. Tu me manques au cœur.

All my love, Auriele x

Every day, his thoughts are plagued with ideas of how to write his next letter. Your previous few communications ran smoothly; you seem incredibly apologetic and, as much as he would've gladly ignored the past tense use of 'love' in your most recent letter, he can't help but realise the difference from your first each time he reads it.

He's not certain why his first letter practically poured from his pen and before he knew it, it was sealed, posted and received. This time, however, he can't even construct a way to greet you.

Has distance and time really weakened your connection that much? His favourite childhood Disney movies would be ashamed.

The heartache you've endured together is insufferable, the bitterness remaining fresh and the misery continuing to roll onwards with him, and yet, you're both still alive. Perhaps, he should be a little more thankful.

He's tested out various support groups over the past few months; they appear to help in the moment, but once he returns home to a completely empty house, - aside from Chi - he realises all of his progress to be entirely fake.

How can he realistically recover from his insurmountable loss in solitude?

An apartment which used to breathe vibrant life and excitement for the future, diminished to nothing but silence.

He might as well have lost his house, too. Every second he spends there, surrounded by reminders of his grief, is draining. Of course, if he were a millionaire, he would've discovered a lovely, one bed flat with wide, open floors and windows. If he were a millionaire, though, maybe none of this agony would've ever happened.

He could’ve fixed it.

Regardless, he didn't, and now he returns home every single day, monotonous and finding solace only in rereading your letters and running through his local park with Chi, no matter the weather.

Sometimes, he hears the faint echo of your melodious voice ringing in his ear; mon doux bébé. For a moment, he believes you may be talking to him, but with a resounding giggle of contentment, you never were.

Within a month, he lost both of his sweet baby girls, and the pain is simply too much to comprehend.

Elle, mon cœur,

Firstly, I apologize for my late reply. This letter was, for some reason, incredibly difficult to write.

You hurt me never. Life hurt me, and it hurt you, too, and I'm sorry it's so cruel.

Chi adored her ice cream - vanilla, your favourite - and said thanks! (complimentary picture attached, for you).

Sympathy and apologies aren't a cure. I've received enough of them to know. I hope you have, too. We might not accept it and it might not heal our pain, but it is nice to know you have people by your side.

Mon amour, I would/could never come close to hatred for you. You are my entire heart, and you own everything within it.

I hope, one day, I can forgive you. I hope you can forgive me. We both made mistakes. We're both accountable, and so is fate. Unfortunately, it wasn't on our side, and we have to welcome that.

Your face is certainly Top Five list of physical attributes, which goes as followed:

1. your lips. I know I complained about them being dry all the time, but I miss them, still.

2. your eyes. Somewhere between the ocean and a cottage filled with flowers, they were paradise.

3. your thighs. I am a man - a broken one, but a man nonetheless - and they are certainly the most family-friendly feature I could think of.

4. your smile. Even on my darkest days, your smile was heaven. I hope you're smiling right now. I wish I could see it.

5. your face? All of the above and everything else. Was that cheating?

I wish I could leave here. I wish I could find a small, tropic island where Chi and I can get tipsy on Virgin Mary's and surf all day, but I feel it wouldn't be fair for both of us to run.

Although, Chi would certainly have a great time in Thailand. She told me so.

Did I mention she misses you? We miss you.

I have more questions than you can imagine. This is only my second letter, however, so I suppose I'll stick to three for now, (sorry for all the lists!)

How are you? Mentally? Physically?

Have you made new friends whilst you've been out there?

Would you ever visit London again?

I miss you forever.

Ton bébé.

Harry x

Harry,

It's more tough to write my letters than you might assume. No need to apologise, I understand.

Life is shit. I thought I had accepted that. I never imagined how evil it could be.

Chi, my baby, looks so pretty. I love her haircut (number 8694743? out of infinite).

I have heard my fair share of sympathy. At first, I felt bitter. They didn't understand what I had suffered, they didn't understand the pain I felt. With time, I realised that, sometimes, sorry is all you need to hear to feel a little better. To feel like you're managing life, at least.

I wish I could believe I deserve it, but I truly don't.

My mistakes seem perpetual. I'm constantly remembering new ones. Things I could've noticed faster, signs that I should've recognised. Yours are nothing. You made no mistakes, mon amour, please believe that. As much as fate has been my least favourite higher power for the past year, I agree about welcoming our own.

I would make a list of my personal favourites of your appearance, but I'd be here all day, and I'm meeting with a friend in an hour (your second question - check).

It wasn't fair for either of us to run. I think it's turned out for the best, however.

I can imagine Chi passed out on the beach. You both deserve a holiday. Go to Scotland, or something, at least. Just away from London.

I miss you both. Much more than I can express.

I'm well. Mentally; it's a struggle, but that's just life, I suppose. Physically; my sickness stopped a while ago. I hope your headaches did, too, but I've been searching for cures for those for a long time.

Yes! I've made quite a few close friends. They all know and love you. I'll tell them you asked.

London holds far too many memories for me to bear. You're the only one I can stand. Maybe one day.

Tellement de câlins.

Auriele.

The second your letter arrives and is read fully three times over, Harry's scrambling to collect his fancy paper and ink pen, thousands of ideas about how to reply brimming in his head.

Pen to paper, however, his mind is entirely blank.

You're inching closer to addressing the subject of your pain, and so is he. So far, the only discussions you've had regarding that difficult topic have ended either in awful arguments or uncontrollable, endless crying and they all occurred before your disappearance.

Since then, you've had ten months and seventeen days shared to mature from and process the situation. Perhaps, if you were to have a conversation about it now, it would be beneficial.

Harry is aware of the solution to his strange writer's block and urges to attempt to fix your hurt, but he's not quite sure if he's ready. Physically forcing himself up from his cluttered desk, he tries not to think of the main event when changing his sloppy t-shirt and joggers to jeans and a jumper; it's February, so the wind is still well and alive but, luckily for Chi and the duration of her walks, the temperatures are beginning to rise.

His destination is barely a thirty minute leisurely stroll through the city away, and he feels shameful to admit that this is his first visit in ten and a half months. Several times, he's gathered his courage to stand on the pavement, surveying the vast area but never making it closer than the protective fences.

This time, though, he's determined to make it. And he will, with je t'aime's and sweet giggles bubbling in his ears.

Your je t'aime's and her sweet giggles.

Auriele,

Life will continue to surprise us. It may be malicious, but it's also given me you, so I guess there are a few reasons to be grateful.

I think it's more like *8694744 out of infinite, and I'm sure she'll have many more unpleasant trips to the groomers in the future.

You are handling life impeccably, considering all. You deserve showers of recognition for just being here.

No one has ever been more deserving of my love, and no one ever will.

Please, don't blame yourself entirely. Yes, there were signs. Signs that we both should've seen earlier. We knew as much as everyone else. We can't know if things would be different if we'd noticed them, because they're not.

I'm glad you're enjoying life in France. Is it peaceful? Is it too far to ask if you're living with one of your new friends? What're their names, if you don't mind my asking?

If I were to go on holiday right now, Paris would be my first choice.

I'm glad you're feeling better, I hope you continue to improve mentally in the future. I wish you nothing but true happiness.

If you're ever here, I'd be honoured to see you again.

This might surprise you. Before I wrote this letter, I went to visit her.

I haven't since we were there together.

I talked to her for hours about my life and my pain and your letters and your pain and anything I'd love to say to you if I knew how. Meline always was the best listener, no offence to you. She just understands.

I miss her. I miss you. I miss my babies.

Please, send me a picture of you (always topping lists) in your next letter. I need to see you now. I bet you're glowing.

Toujours, Harry x

Harry, mon amour,

I feel as if I should address the end of your letter first, because I certainly wasn't expecting it. I cried a lot. I'm still crying as I write this.

It feels nice to feel.

I've been so numb to it all. I know I should sob every day, think of her every single second. I don't. That may make me an awful person, but I always preferred not to lie. Especially to you. I don't think the gravity has quite hit me yet.

Back to the normal, top to bottom of your letter.

My family is a gift. My parents, you and Meline, specifically. I've never admired anyone more.

I miss Chi. Especially today, for some reason. Send more pictures of her when you next write. (I enclosed an updated picture of me in town, if you hadn't noticed! It was taken last week.)

I had concerns. Concerns that I didn't follow up on. We knew something was wrong, but we did everything we could, right? We found help. We found medicine. Why didn't it work?

How fucking cruel can life possibly be?

It's much quieter than London. The air quality is visibly better. I am, actually. My closest friends are Leon and Aline. I'm living with them!

Paris is about as good a holiday as you can get. If I'm ever near you, whatever country it happens to be in, I'll be sure to see you.

The last part of your letter. I already touched upon it but not nearly enough.

I haven't said, heard or read her name in eleven months. I miss it. I miss your voice. And her laughs. She was so, so lively and enthusiastic for life.

It's so unfair that she didn't get the chance.

And I agree; she always was a fantastic listener. I told her about our issues more than I should've.

I wish I could hear her again. Her name wasn't Meline Risette Styles for nothing. Her laughs were so pretty. I could've listened on repeat.

I did. For a year.

I miss her.

I miss you. I miss your warmth. I miss your heart and your love and your smile and everything about you.

I miss normality.

When we thought things would be okay.

We were wrong, and hindsight, that's okay, too.

We will heal eventually, I trust that life can't take much more away from me.

Tout mon amour, Auriele x

Since that day, Harry's visited Meline every Sunday without fail - it's only been three weeks, but going in the first place was an unimaginable step.

He even combined Chi's walk with the most recent, and each time, entering, staying at and emerging from the cemetery becomes easier.

The first time, he paced through the gates several times before building the bravery to even step inside without running back. His flight or fight instinct had been touchy the whole time, bias towards flight the entire time.

He just wanted to be as far away from the source of his pain as possible.

At the same time, he just wanted his daughter back. Alive and healthy.

Once he'd settled, laid on the ground like a madman next to her grave, he never wanted to leave her again. He even brought her flowers and a little teddy bear from a shop he'd passed on his hurried journey there.

It was well and truly dark by the time he even considered returning home, because he'd rather be with his sweet baby than alone at home.

Now, Chi sniffs inquisitively around at the bundles of flowers placed on surrounding graves whilst Harry converses with his dead child's grave like she was as animated and eager as he remembered.

It's a little questionable for his sanity, but extremely helpful for his own mental health. And he's trying to fix them both.

He just wishes so much that he'd pushed for more tests in the hospital. If he could, he'd reject their diagnosis and prescription of heart medication and an inhaler for when her asthma flared up.

They claimed she had a weakened respiratory system and, subsequently, her heart didn't deal well under stress, mostly due to her premature birth.

They were correct.

However, they were entirely wrong when they sent you all home with a tub of medicine and advice to lower any potential stressors around her.

Harry remembers scoffing to himself; she was one, what could possibly be stressing her that much?

Apparently, a lot of things.

Your je t'aime's and her sweet giggles.

There's truly nothing better.

Auriele,

I understand completely about any emotion feeling refreshing. For a while, I felt immune to it. I cried and I got angry, but nothing ever really set in.

I'm thankful that I can feel now and it doesn't destroy me.

You're not at all a bad person, or a bad parent. Often, I wish I could forget about her. And not just to remove the pain for a day or two. Also, I appreciate the honesty.

Important things must be talked about first. And while this paragraph isn't quite at the top of my letter, it certainly is my most admiritive.

You're so, so unbelievably beautiful. Even more so, now.

Your eyes are still paradise. That picture is stuck onto the cork board in the kitchen forever.

We did absolutely everything in our power to help our baby. As soon as we noticed an issue, we took her to the hospital. Maybe they accidentally underestimated her condition, maybe they just assumed it'd be treated with that medication.

Either way, we helped her as much as we could. And you were, are, and always will be the most incredible mother.

Meline was lucky, truly. She loved you so much.

As it turns out, life can be our greatest enemy. It's difficult to control and even harder to accept, but everything happens for a reason, I suppose.

Leon and Aline sound wonderful. I know it's not my place, but tell them I said thank you for being there for you? You don't have to.

I've never known someone deserve a full, healthy life more than our sweet girl, and it's an injustice to steal that opportunity from her at such a young age.

She would've been two next week. I'm sure you don't need reminding, but I'm still trying to handle my feelings about it. I already know her birthday is going to be the worst day since she died.

Meline Risette Styles deserves the world, as do you. Please don't be afraid to take it. You've earned it.

Her name still brings me so much joy; little honey, pleasant little laugh. It was such an apt description, in her short life.

Life can always take more, but it gives things that are so wonderful. Sois optimiste.

Tout mon amour et câlins, Harry x

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