Chapter Text
"Long have there been no conversations between us, my true one."
In the room where classical compositions play, shattering the silence, I exhale nervously, staring at the sheet of bamboo paper where beautifully scripted letters in Japanese are written. Finally, he replied.
Shifting my gaze to the sheets inscribed with his handwriting, I realize that my source of inspiration all this time has been a mysterious stranger, sending letters to my mailbox.
At first, I reached out to various companies, asking if they were couriers and who this person was, but everything remained unanswered, and at some point, I thought I was going mad.
After some time, I understood everything. It happened after his second letter, when the wrist was surrounded by red threads with a single letter.
S.
We were so few - souls, connected to each other in this world. And if you have found your truth, then be proud and love to ecstasy, for it is a blessing from above. Over time, people on this planet stopped perceiving it as a kind of religion, preferring the present ones.
Recalling my mother's words about the soulmates story in childhood, I remember how her eyes sparkled. I sincerely wanted to meet my soulmate and live a happy life, but not now. Not at the moment when I turned twenty-two, and my true one never appeared in my life, only mysteriously sending strange notes.
"And God, having punished this person with two faces and four arms, cleaved him in half, commanding the whole world to seek their other half, wandering the earth that He created," remembering my mother's story, I repeat these words to myself, clutching the scrap of paper with trembling hands.
To hell with it.
Right now, I just need rain. To make the scorching sun disappear, the whole world painted in gloomy hues, so I could step outside and soak through, cooling myself down. Then, perhaps, the feelings inside me will subside.
Exhaling nervously, I open the next letter and freeze in place. I promise myself that I'll look, read, dedicate only a few seconds to it, and then turn it all to ashes. I just need a moment. Just as small as I am, the residual feeling of hope inside me, asking: will he write about himself? Will he promise a meeting?
"I understand it's hard for you. It's hard for me too. Why are you so clumsy? You know, every wound and pain is transmitted to the true one..."
Yesterday, I scalded myself with boiling water. I apologized to the void, I don't know, but the burn disappeared the next day.
"It doesn't matter. Just know that I would like to meet you, I just don't know how..."
"Write something about yourself? Say where you are?" I whisper desperately into the void, holding back a lump in my throat.
"By the way, I finished reading that book you recommended to me, 'Beyond Good and Evil,' and realised that if I had come across this book a few years ago, I would be a completely different person now."
Yes, and somehow he receives my letters, which I desperately put into my mailbox. I even installed cameras in front of the house, didn't leave the monitor, thinking he would come, take the next letter, and leave me his messages, but no one came. Maybe I really have gone mad.
"I hope to finish something cool and I want you to be the first to read it. Probably stupid, right? I haven't written a single line yet, and I only have a title and a couple of days. It seems like it's all, and I have nothing to tell. Maybe that's good. It means there's a lot less drama in life. You should know how much I love getting into trouble, Suguru..."
I know he knows everything about me, while I know nothing about him. I know how he loves getting into trouble, and I feel his pain inside me when something bad happens. I know that summer and spring are his favorite seasons of the year because you can enjoy so much during that time. It's not any easier for me. I'm damn hurt because we're true ones, so why doesn't he want to appear in my life?
"Please be careful. I can't afford another loss, especially of someone who’s like you, whose first initial looks so beautiful on my wrist. Lately, your mental state has been deteriorating, hasn't it, Suguru?"
How can he write about all this when inside me, boiling turmoil reaches its limit, tearing apart all my insides? It's all disgusting. The fact that I'll never see him, that I'll receive meaningless letters, that I'll retreat into myself and hate the whole world — it's disgusting. His scent seeps from the paper, and at one moment, I become so consumed by longing that in every passerby smelling like parchment, I find him.
"I'll find a way, so wait for me..."
He's been telling me this for two years and nine months now.
"You write to me, even if I'm silent. Sounds selfish, doesn't it? But I enjoy reading about your day passing. Maybe you went to the movies today and enjoyed delicious food..."
God, I'm sure my true one is cozy and warm. I want to scream at him that since his first letter, I haven't been able to do anything, that he'd better keep silent. But instead, I foolishly smile and continue reading, even though inside me boils a melancholic anger.
"It may seem trivial, but write whatever you want, Suguru. For example, that as usual, you had apple pie, and your supply of pomegranate juice ran out again. It's amazing that even true ones can know this."
Somewhere outside, children's screams are heard, and their footballs echo against the building. Only now do I realize that these sounds of impact are actually closer than I thought: they're inside me.
"Something like: 'Today was all good, I was at home, rereading my favorite book, and the Master is in love with Margarita again. In the cup, chamomile tea, and alongside it, as usual, almond croissant.'"
The Master falls in love with Margarita, and I crave poisoned wine served by Azazello, so I don't have to feel these emotions right now.
"Well, something like that. Just a couple of lines, but I'll know for sure that you haven't forgotten about me. Even though far from you, but somewhere nearby. Darling, perhaps someone is with you, and that someone isn't me. And here I'll be alone — that's for sure. It's all just nonsense, rubbish, as you like to say, Suguru. I'll be waiting for your letter. With love, your true one."
The desire to reply to him simultaneously attracts and repels me. Where did he get the idea that I am capable of giving myself to someone else? I'm tired.
The letter remains on the table, knowing that I won't be able to burn it, like the other sixty-six. The silence in the room stretches into trapezoidal shadows towards the desk lamp, emitting golden light. Sitting down at the wooden table, I take the quill, dip it into the black ink, and begin to write. So many words.
The letters flow effortlessly, and tears fall from the understanding that the response won't be quick, and perhaps I shouldn't write such things. But still, I write, hoping for a swift response, where my true one will say that it's time to meet.
"At least by train or plane, with the cheapest seat, with unlucky and uncomfortable chairs."
I gulp and once again survey his beautiful handwriting.
"So that later, from the taxi, I can descend into the subway, all just to be near you as soon as possible."
I grip the quill too tightly, exhaling so loudly that the song playing from the vinyl player isn't as clear.
"I want to see you, without haste, so that none of the mentioned paths separates us."
The desire to breathe fresh air makes me restrain myself. If I open the window, his scent emitted by the bamboo paper will dissipate.
"I need this meeting to feel a sip of intoxicating air, not to mention the scent of your existence. I fear that I will ignite to the limit and won't be able to let go."
My state reminds me of the Mariana Trench or the Pacific Ridge. As if at the moment of writing these words, I am not in my apartment on the outskirts of a secluded town in Germany, but at the bottom of the seas, oceans amidst coral reefs and seaweed.
"I will come to you with new letters, books about love, and soul wounds. Hoping that you can meet me."
I would lie if I said that last year I didn't spontaneously decide to fly to Japan, hoping to find his trace by the red thread. I was lucky that my mother, Japanese by origin, taught me the native language, and I didn't get lost in the vast metropolis. Although, no, I got lost. I didn't find him.
"To meet with an open heart, even if it's difficult, I continue to nurture hopes, and now, on my knees, I will come to you by any means necessary. Just tell me, S."
To hell with anger, it's time for regrets.
"Sincerely yours, Suguru."
We are bound by default, and for him, I am willing to do anything. Because that's what my heart commands me. It's always better to say than not to say.
"I'll find you anyway someday — alone, and then by default, together with poisoned wine."
Someday I will become a poem, but not a poet, as I am now.