Just seeing her joyous, swirly-girly handwriting for the first time since September reminded me of the lazy hours we used to spend together under the sun making endless daisychains and made me smile.

The rain was rolling down the windowpane and drumming insistently on the roof. She wanted to know why I had left her. Fuck.

Of course, I wrote back. I just told her I was staying with a friend and I would see her again in June. I wish I could've told her more. I said that when we were together again, we could pick the ripe raspberries from her garden together in the morning, while birdsong fluttered through the breeze. We could sit on a blanket of green and munch on the fruits we had collected in the afternoon, and in the evening we could laze by the river, listen to the water flowing through and the insects hurrying round, and wait for the cool night air to wash over us.

The roll of thunder forced me to look up. The rain surrounded me now. I knew I couldn't just avoid telling her why I'd had to leave, but I didn't see any way of explaining it to her. I wished I could've just told her the truth, that she could have understood it, that I could have avoided causing her all this pain.

I tried to think of something reassuring to write,or something apologetic, but nothing came. So I wrote about... how much I love her. Stupid. Stupid.

I wrote how I love the white dress she always wears, and her straw hat that's constantly falling apart yet never does, and her lovely long hair, and her smell, and her voice and her face and her smile. I felt guilty for taking the happiness away from a girl as lovely as she was, who had never done anything wrong to anyone or anything, who didn't deserve to be treated as badly as this.

The rain wasn't giving up. It wasn't going to let me forget how far away she was from me. Fuck. I told her that when we were together again I would never ever let us get separated, and that nothing artificial would ever get in our way ever again.

I am a liar and a coward.

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