The seasons had shifted once more.
The leaves that had once drifted lazily through the academy gardens were now almost entirely vanished from the branches.
The winter wind moved with a sharper edge between the stone buildings, and the students began to spend the greater part of their hours indoors.
Yet, the turning of the seasons was not what occupied my thoughts. What had changed was something far smaller—and far more harrowing.
The letters from Élisabeth.
In the beginning, they arrived with a rhythm that felt almost like a spoken discourse. Four days. Sometimes five. Rarely more than a week. Each time the academy porter called my name in the library, I knew what he bore before I had even glimpsed the envelope.
But slowly, that rhythm altered. A week passed. Then longer. And when a letter finally arrived, the sentiments within felt somewhat briefer than before.
Perhaps nothing had truly changed. Perhaps it was merely my own mind seeking out shadows where none existed.
Yet, each time I read her prose, a thought began to surface more frequently than it ought to.
I thought of Élisabeth's life at her new academy. Of the noble festivities she had mentioned in her correspondence.
Of the men who lived in a world far closer to hers than I ever could. Men who did not need to wonder if their surnames were worthy enough to stand at her side.
That night, I sat alone in my small chamber. Upon the wooden desk before me lay several of her old letters. Her handwriting remained just as it was when I first came to know her. Elegant. Slightly slanted. And somehow, more alive than any book I had ever read.
I opened one old missive. Then another. Every sentence felt like a conversation we had once shared in the library, or in the small garden behind the astronomy building—places where everything had once seemed so remarkably simple.
I closed the letters slowly. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to imagine something I rarely permitted my mind to dwell upon.
A life where I need not consider lineage. A life where I could walk beside Élisabeth without feeling that our every step was being weighed by a world far greater than ourselves.
A simple life. Conversations in the library.
Afternoon strolls in the garden. Perhaps a modest house, not unlike my own. No grandeur. No noble gatherings. Merely a quiet existence, and someone sitting across the table whilst I read.
The thought felt so vivid that my chest began to feel heavy.
For I knew how improbable it was that the world would ever allow such a thing to pass.
I opened the blank book she had once given me. Her handwriting still graced the first page: For the things that cannot always be explained by numbers.
I stared at that sentence for a very long time.
Throughout my life, I had always believed that almost everything in this world could be understood through logic. Yet that night, I realised that feelings never adhere to the same laws.
My hand finally reached for the pen.
At first, I intended only to write a customary reply. A simple letter.
Something safe. But as the nib touched the parchment, I realised that something was different that night.
It was as though every word I penned would draw us closer to something that could no longer be undone.
I wrote one sentence.
Then I stopped. My hand felt somewhat tremulous. I took a long breath before finally beginning again.
Élisabeth,
I have written many letters to you over these past months, yet I have never truly said the one thing that is perhaps the most honest of all.
Truthfully, I do not wish to write this letter. If the world functioned with a little more simplicity, I might never have needed to.
I would much rather walk with you in the academy gardens than attempt to explain my heart through ink and paper.
I would rather sit across from you in the library, listening to the questions for which you pretend not to know the answers.
But the world does not always grant us such choices.
I do not know what manner of life awaits you in that place now.
But I know that your world will always be vaster than the small one I have known.
And I do not wish to one day be the reason that world feels narrower for you.
Before I cease writing, however, there is one thing you must know.
I love you.
Not merely since these letters began. Perhaps since the very first day you stood in that lecture hall and enquired about Fibonacci.
Or perhaps since the day you came to my modest home and remarked that the place felt more honest than the grand houses you had seen.
I never truly knew when the feeling began; I only know that now, even as I try to convince myself to let it go…
it does not grow any smaller.
If the world were a little kinder to us, I might have attempted a simple life at your side.
But I fear the world will never permit us such an existence.
Therefore, I think it best if this letter remains my last.
Not because I have ceased to think of you—but because I may never truly stop.
— Adrian
When I finished writing, I noticed that the ink in the final few lines was somewhat blurred.
I did not immediately comprehend why.
It was only after several seconds that I felt a warm droplet fall upon my hand.
I wiped my face quickly.
The room was far too silent for such a thing.
I folded the letter slowly.
My hands were still slightly trembling as I slipped it into the envelope.
For a few moments, I merely sat there, staring at the wax seal as it began to harden.
It felt as though, as long as the letter remained unsent, everything could still be retracted.
But morning arrived as it always does.
And on that morning, I delivered the letter to the academy porter.
As he walked away with the envelope, there was one sensation I could never truly explain.
It was as though something precious had just departed from my life.
And this time, it was not distance that separated us.
It was a decision I had penned myself, with ink and tears.