# The Letterbox of Belakshoy / Part Two The monsoon had arrived early that year, turning the paths around Belakshoy into rivers of clay. Nabakumar stood at the window of his room, watching the rain hammer against the glass as if demanding entry. The old house creaked and settled under the weight of water, and somewhere in its depths, the letterbox waited—that small wooden sentinel mounted beside the front door, patient and inscrutable. It was three weeks since the last letter had come. Three weeks of silence that felt less like absence and more like presence—the presence of something unsaid, something hovering in the damp air between the monsoon clouds and the earth. Nabakumar had taken to standing here, at this window, as if by observing the rain long enough he might understand what it was trying to communicate. The postman no longer came regularly; the roads had become treacherous, and even the most dutiful carrier would think twice before venturing out to the outlying estates. Still, Nabakumar waited. He had written three letters himself in those three weeks—each one begun with care, each one abandoned halfway through. Words seemed inadequate now, insufficient containers for what he needed to say. He had learned, over the months of correspondence, that letters were not really about words at all. They were about presence made visible through absence, about the shape of a life described in the pauses between sentences. The rain continued. A servant brought him tea, which he let grow cold beside a stack of old letters—his archive now, his careful record of the impossible. In the afternoon, Nabakumar ventured downstairs. The house was dim, lit only by the grey water-light filtering through the windows. The letterbox seemed smaller than he remembered it, almost apologetic in its modesty. He stood before it as one might stand before a closed door in a dream, knowing that to open it would change something irrevocably. But there was nothing inside. Only dust and the faint smell of old paper. That evening, as dusk dissolved into a deeper darkness, a visitor arrived. This was unusual enough to merit surprise, but more remarkable still was who it was: his cousin Rajesh, whom he had not seen in five years, and who lived now in Calcutta, immersed in a life so distant from Belakshoy that he might have been living on another continent altogether. "What brings you here in this weather?" Nabakumar asked, though he already knew the answer, or thought he did. News traveled, even to the city. Rumors about the letters, the correspondence, the peculiar hermitage he had adopted—these stories had a way of reaching relatives. Rajesh shook water from his coat. He was heavier than Nabakumar remembered, his face marked by the particular exhaustion of men who lived by schedules and appointments. "I came because I received a letter," Rajesh said simply. "From someone who claims to know you. Someone who thought I might persuade you to do something sensible." Nabakumar felt a chill that had nothing to do with the monsoon. "What did this person want you to tell me?" "That there are other ways to live," Rajesh said, settling himself into a chair with a sigh. "That isolation is not the same as wisdom. That a man of your education and means might find better uses for his time than waiting for the post like a lovesick boy." The words, though not unexpected, struck with considerable force. Nabakumar moved to the window, where the rain continued its relentless percussion. "And what did you tell this person?" "I told them I would come and see for myself." Rajesh paused. "I am seeing for myself. You look like a man who is waiting for something that may never come." "Perhaps," Nabakumar said quietly. "But the waiting itself is the point, don't you understand? The world is full of people who pursue things with absolute certainty—success, wealth, happiness. They never find what they're looking for because they're always moving, always grasping. But if you wait, if you remain still enough, sometimes the world reveals itself to you. Sometimes meaning arrives unbidden." Rajesh made a sound that might have been sympathy or might have been skepticism. "That's a lovely sentiment," he said. "But it won't pay your bills or give you a family or a purpose beyond the margins of your own contemplation." "Perhaps not," Nabakumar acknowledged. "But it might teach you something about the nature of waiting itself. About what it means to be truly present to one's own life, rather than merely passing through it." They talked late into the evening. Rajesh spoke of Calcutta, of progress and industry, of the new world being born in the collision between traditional India and the machinery of modernity. Nabakumar listened and occasionally spoke, but much of his attention remained elsewhere—with the letterbox, with the absent correspondent, with the shape of a conversation conducted across distance and time. Before retiring, Rajesh asked to see the letters. Nabakumar brought them out—a modest collection, tied with string, each envelope worn from handling. Rajesh read through them slowly, his expression shifting from skepticism to something more complex. "These are love letters," he said finally, though not as an accusation. "After a fashion," Nabakumar replied. "Though not in the conventional sense. The person who wrote them—" "Is not someone you have ever met in person," Rajesh finished. "I understand that now. You've built an entire world with someone you know only through words. That's rather dangerous, don't you think?" "Is it?" Nabakumar moved to the window. The rain had softened now, reduced to a gentle patter. "Or is it the only honest way two people can ever truly know each other? Without the distraction of presence, without the burden of physical form, we are nothing but our words, our thoughts, our careful truths." "And when you finally meet?" Rajesh asked. "When the words must become flesh?" "Then perhaps we will discover that meaning exists not in the meeting but in the approaching," Nabakumar said. "That the destination is less important than the road itself." Rajesh left the next morning, shaking his head in a way that suggested both concern and resignation. Before his carriage disappeared into the rain, he pressed a gift upon Nabakumar—a book, practically new, full of poems about love and loss in the modern age. The irony was not lost on either of them. Alone again, Nabakumar returned to his vigil. The letterbox waited by the door, patient and permanent. And in his mind, he composed a reply to Rajesh, to the invisible correspondent, to the entire world that seemed determined to interrupt his solitude—a reply he would never send, because it existed only in the space between letters, in the profound silence between one word and the next. The rain continued. The monsoon deepened. And somewhere in the city, someone perhaps was composing their own letter, taking up pen and paper and beginning again the ancient, impossible work of speaking across the gulf of distance to another human heart.

Letter 6
----------------------
Happy New Year, my world! I wrote on the 9th, and now it's the 14th. I haven't written in between. You don't like that, so I haven't.


You know, today I'm missing you terribly. Terribly, terribly, terribly. But my fate hasn't blessed me with the chance to see you. Why have you been so hard on me all these years? You don't owe me an answer—answer to your own conscience instead. I want to cry so badly sitting right in front of you. If you want, you could cry with me. Or you might not. It's entirely your choice. I understand that nothing happens outside your will. Look, you want me not to write to your inbox but to post on my wall instead, so I stop coming to your inbox. My love is different from the others. You shouldn't confuse me with them, even by mistake. I'm begging you with folded hands. You don't have to love me back, but don't cheapen my love. What others are doesn't concern me. I only know my own heart.


Why did I say this? Let me tell you. Some have loved you wanting to possess you, some for marriage, some for the sake of loving, some just to get your attention, and some have been happy simply loving you. I only wanted to love, with no expectation of return or gain from you. Truly, none. I never wanted you as a lover, never as a son-in-law. I'm speaking from my heart—I didn't. Truly, I didn't. I've always prayed to the Creator for one thing: that you get whoever you want, and that your God grant you everything you desire. Not once, even by mistake, have I asked God for you. My love doesn't mean imprisoning you. My love means putting your needs and desires first.


What would have happened if I'd married you? We'd have fought sometimes. A relationship without fights feels strange to me. I think where there's no fight, there's no real bond—only performance, endless performance. I've heard my mother and grandmother say that when there are dishes in the kitchen, they're bound to clink against each other now and then. That's the nature of things. But if we'd fought, I couldn't have stayed away from you for more than seven or eight days. And you know, you're my place of judgment and my place of love both. If I'd married you, I imagine so many things now. Yet all this time I imagined nothing. All this time I only wished for you to have whoever you wanted. Today I wish I could dare to imagine you in my arms. I imagine you as the father of my daughter. I bring you close, right into my heart. Having you would mean having my entire world. Truly, what more would I need if I had you?


Consider this: Shah Rukh Khan wouldn't have reached the position he's at today, wouldn't have the name he has, if Gauri Khan hadn't stood by him. He is Shah Rukh Khan because Gauri is beside him. Everyone accepts and believes this. It's truly difficult to be a woman like Gauri. When they married, Shah Rukh had nothing—how she supported him, what she gave him, is beyond words.

# Kajol and Shah Rukh Khan

Kajol and Shah Rukh Khan are very close friends. I heard the other day that Kajol was apparently madly in love with Shah Rukh, wanting to marry him or something. Yet when I look at Gauri, I’m amazed—she’s accepted Kajol and Shah Rukh’s friendship so gracefully. If this were Bangladesh, the husband would have beaten that woman to death or needled her until her spirit broke!

But I’m not saying that. I’m not saying a husband should accept every wrong thing he does. But here’s what I know: when you love someone desperately, you let go of so much—for their happiness, for the smile on their face. And yet it’s also true that you can’t share your beloved with anyone. If I ever marry, and later I see my husband has loved someone else, truly loved them, then after a while I’ll step back. I’ll remove myself from his life completely. You know I can do that—disappear when I need to. The thing is, whoever loves me should love all of me—the good and the bad both. I’m not a hundred percent good, and neither is anyone else. So what’s all this fuss about? Whoever truly loves me will stay by my side till the very end. That’s what I believe. And if he doesn’t, I won’t regret it. Because I can swallow so much pain. Pain is like stale rice to me—I digest it all.

You know, let me tell you something. I didn’t want to, but I’m telling you because I want you to understand how I feel about you. About that man you suspect me of—the day I met him, there’s something I want to tell you. I’d already told you before that I’d see him. You don’t remember. But I’d told you, long ago. So that day in Gulshan, my mind kept reaching for you. I don’t know why. My hand kept moving toward my phone, wanting to message you. I wanted to ask: I’ve stepped out—can I meet someone? That thought kept circling in my head, and I just sat there in the restaurant, staring at the door. I don’t know if you’ll believe me. I can’t even describe how restless I was. It felt like someone had possessed me. And that someone was you. I’m serious. I hadn’t told you before. You never have time to listen to me anyway. How could I tell you?

He left his phone in front of me and went to the counter to order. He stood there for fifteen minutes. I sat alone. He placed his phone before me as if to say—to show me—that he wasn’t stepping away to talk to anyone else. And it was true. His phone was right there in front of me, so how could he be talking to anyone? Believe me, I kept turning my head right, then left, then staring out the window at the street below. You went to that restaurant once—I saw it on Facebook. I stared at the exact table where you’d sat. My only thought, again and again, was: I should tell him. But in the same moment, I thought: if I tell him, he’ll just say, Why didn’t you call? Why are you telling me this? What do you want me to do? So that day, sitting right there, I even opened his Messenger inbox but couldn’t say a word.

The truth is, there’s nothing between you and me. No commitment. Nothing.

# What Was Love

What was love, it was one-sided—that too I wanted you to know. Then I thought, if you scolded me and said something sharp, it would bother me. So I never told you. And look, I’ve only seen this person once. Nothing much to it, really. A very simple thing. Yet at that time it weighed so heavily on me—I felt terrible for not telling you about it. That very night, after he left for home, I knocked and said, listen, let me tell you something. I’m not the kind of girl who goes around with boys or meets everyone. I love one person fiercely—I only meet him. Even though I haven’t seen him in many years now. And I go out in Dhaka with my cousins. He said then, I can tell just by looking at you—you’re not the type to go around with boys. I understood the moment I saw you; you’re a very good girl. And I left you for fifteen minutes for this reason, so you could be a little easy about it. I could tell just from seeing you that you don’t meet anyone or go out with anyone. His manner was truly kind. He made a remark about me once. He said, you’re far too good. And such good people suffer greatly. Why are you so good? Be a little less good. You know, when I heard him say that, I only laughed. What could I say? There was nothing to say. I know I’m a terrible person—I don’t know why people call me good.

—

Today I wanted to see you so much. I cried for a long time sitting in prayer. At this final hour, why am I losing control of myself, I can’t understand! There was so much I didn’t understand before. You know, it’s only since father died that I’ve truly grasped something, and it is this: *”Girls without fathers have no real joy or delight. No real desires or wants. From the day they become orphans without a father, from that very day they understand so much.”* I’ve withdrawn from many people. Some didn’t understand. I’m withdrawing from everyone. It feels good to stay away. Now, at the very end, when you’ve misunderstood me so greatly, it makes me believe even more that with my father’s death, all my happiness left this world. This world is not for orphans. Only for hypocrites and those who have plenty and plenty.

—

I have nothing to ask of you. And nothing to receive. I mentioned meeting the other day. Sorry—you don’t need to meet me. Not once did you come to see me after father died, not once did you call by mistake. I’ve gone through many nights without food, many have treated me cruelly, many still wound me, you know nothing of this, you don’t know how many harsh and terrible words I’ve had to hear, I’m still hearing them. I didn’t come to you filling your inbox with all my sorrows. I’ve borne all my pain alone. And today I’m doing well. So I’m telling you, stay with those you like. Those who flood your inbox with a thousand scoldings and you don’t get angry. Rather, their rage flows freely into your poems, their harsh words please you. Their demands seem just to you.

You stay happy and at peace with those you love. I have nothing to say about it. Listen, be well. I’m doing much better now. After Father died, time passed in great suffering, but I never burdened you with those stories. I’m truly different, not like the rest. Remember that.

Now at the end, I want to say this: even though I got nothing by loving you, I carried so many grievances with me to the grave. That itself is my great gain. I have nothing to ask of you, really. Stay well. Forgive me for everything.

Letter 7
———————-

One request. Listen, don’t change yourself, please. If something causes you pain, or if someone hurts you deeply, wait—time will answer. I’m telling you truly, when I read your status, I turned all the questions on myself first, one by one. I had some grievances, and I voiced them to you. I can’t keep things to myself; I just say them! That’s all. So at the end, when I complained, did it hurt you terribly? You’ll surely say, ‘You didn’t love me, that’s why you could complain and judge.’ But listen then: I complained and said those things at the end precisely *because* I loved you. I deposit everything with you. And you—did you say you have no anger toward me? Well, people only get angry with those close to them. So I’m telling myself you’re not close to me. But then how could anger and grievance exist at all?

Love and affection are two different things. After a time, that attraction in romance fades. In truth, romance itself doesn’t last. But affection—it stays your whole life. Only death ends it. That’s simply how affection is. The joy I’ve known in loving you—I believe there’s nothing, not even a thousand physical unions, that could match it. Though I know nothing of physical relations, still I can say it: nothing is greater than love. Physical need ends sometime, but affection ends only in death. Never leave this world before me. It would become unbearably hard for me to go on living. With all my heart, I want to be the one to go first, because you won’t suffer for it, but *you* are my world. If my world goes, my life becomes impossible, dear. Pray that this virus takes me instead. I have no wish to live much longer. Truly, I don’t. And listen—I love you. Very much indeed.

See, I’m still awake! Why, tell me. My heart says you’re awake, so I can’t sleep either. You don’t know that someone far away is awake for you. We’re not talking. I’m not even messaging. And yet I’m awake with you. Isn’t that beautiful?

Good morning, my world!

That text I sent in the morning—you didn’t see it. The reason is very simple. There are many more important to you than me. I know that, and I accept it. Where do I go, tell me… where you’re not, nothing about you will enter my head! You’re online but you don’t read my messages, and knowing these things, why should I suffer anymore? Where do I go? Death is the only answer. The only escape from everything. I asked you for one thing! One letter. For me alone. No one else will see it, no one will know. Only I will.

But you were never given to me—time ran out. Time exists, yes, but it won’t give me you! That’s one reason too. I’ve said it before, I know. Fatherless girls shouldn’t have such wants, such claims on the world. I’ve come to understand that now. Not even in this virtual world do they have a place. So bit by bit, I’m withdrawing from everything.

You are my old habit. My whole world along with you. You must understand—nearly all these years have passed, and my love hasn’t diminished; it only grows with each day. Of course, many love you. Your wife loves you too. So what’s the good of my love for you! What more could one person’s love add to someone so many people love! Do you know what Rabindranath said in *The Last Poem*? “Love is a more living thing than marriage.” I think he spoke something terribly beautiful there. Because not all marriages hold love. And not all love ends in marriage.

Can I tell you something true about you? When I see you talking with your daughters, telling someone you love them, watching you write poems about someone, desperately wanting them back in your life…I don’t like these things. This is my simple confession to you, about you. But that doesn’t mean these things will make me stop loving you. To love you means to love both your good and your bad, your light and your shadow—nothing is waste to me. Now, about all these people telling you they love you lately…I know, plenty of girls say it these days. You can tell from your writing. It’s not as though everything comes purely from your heart; some of it is happening, circumstantial. So here’s what I’d ask all of them. I’d simply ask: how many tears have you shed while saying you love him?

You don’t check messages, you don’t pick up calls, you say harsh things and people cry, you don’t visit and they resent you…If a girl weeps because of all this, then be sure—she’s only expecting the good from you. When you don’t answer, don’t call, don’t visit and she cries, that means your behavior has hurt her, so she weeps. Only that one person whose eyes will water for you—she truly loves you. Even if your behavior toward me isn’t kind, I love you still. Even if you don’t want me, I love you. However you treat me, however many times you scold me, whatever you do or say or how you behave toward me—still I love you, I will love you, I will never leave you, not even if you drive me away. Believe me.

When your back ached, tears would stream from my eyes at that very moment. When someone hurt you, they were really hurting me. In your times of danger, I could only cry out in prayer: “Allah, I don’t need my job, I don’t need the dearest thing in my life—I’ll never ask for it again. Just save my beloved. If I’ve ever done any good in my life, let that be my payment: save the person I love.” Having you would have been everything for me. But having you and then losing you—I couldn’t bear it. Never. So it’s better that I don’t have you.

Your every fault is overcome by my love for you.

Because your faults are small, and my love is vast—so vast I cannot measure it, yet I know this much: when love is this enormous, everything else shrinks to nothing. One day I’ll run far away from here. And I’ll never bring the torture of this love to your door again. Just know this: I love you.

—

Boy, what if you truly loved me, just a little? I’m not asking for any claim on you! You can’t even bear to look at me! Every other moment you’re messaging someone on WhatsApp, who knows who.

—

You told me to take care of myself. But you never said how I’m supposed to be well without you! Why didn’t you say it? Is there someone new in your life? Do I need to make room for her, step aside? Why? I’ve accepted your family, your whole world. Don’t you see how strong I am? You said that day—if even a prostitute gives you peace, you’d leave this agonizing love and go to her for that peace. Fine. I accepted it. It’s my job to accept everything. All your wishes, all your whims—that’s what I do. For five years now, that’s what’s been happening. So tell me this: a prostitute stays only as long as you pay her, right? Just for the duration of her work. After that? What about the time after? Then you need someone, don’t you? Someone to talk to, to share your joys and sorrows with. Isn’t that right?

—

Now you’ll say you have plenty of people. Fine, keep them. Exactly five years from today, I’ll come back and see how they’re doing. I know time answers all things. I’m waiting for that time. When I found you, you were alone. Unmarried. Even knowing I loved you, even feeling that love, I never let you see it. I never asked for anything, never opened my mouth to demand. Your happiness was all that mattered to me. That’s why I never wanted to possess you. I wanted you to have whoever you wanted. So my share, my desires—they never seemed important beside what you wanted. Lately, I’m desperate to have you. Somehow I’m losing myself. I can’t do so many things anymore. I’ve lost myself, and now the pain of not having you is driving me mad.

—

Everything is precious to me! Some relationships too. I still have my childhood toys, kept them carefully. I’ll show you their pictures. You know I can’t keep anything from you. I tell you everything. I even bring my grievances about you to you. Who else would I complain to? Go running to my father’s house with complaints about you? I’m not that kind of woman. I’ve said it—you’re all my questions, and you’re the answer to all of them. Why are you pushing me away? Would it make you happy if I went to that other person? He knows I love someone intensely. For five years. But he doesn’t know who. He knows I can never love anyone else that way. He knows I love only one person. Intensely.

—

My phone’s completely dead. Can’t even write. I’ll come today, my love. Please don’t stay up too late.

—

**Letter 8**
**—**

Do you know where you are? I feel like crying. I want to lay my head on your chest and sleep. I feel so terribly alone, even though I truly am alone.

# There Was No One Else for Me

There was no one else. Only one person who ever asked. How can you let me go like this? I keep asking you—hold my hand, don’t let go—and yet you released it. Why did you? Why did you hand me over to someone else! Have I ever asked you for a fancy house, a car, jewelry, a phone, a laptop? Have I ever even hinted, even once in passing, that I desperately needed such things? I never needed anything. All I ever spoke of was love. So tell me now—what do I really need? Things or love? Of course, love. I don’t need a house or a car. And if I want to wear jewelry, I’ll wrap you around me. Who else would have the nerve to touch my body! For a girl, the man she loves is the greatest ornament. And why would I need a phone or a laptop when you’re beside me? With you here, I need nothing—I only want you. Look, I’m crying. You must be busy. Sleeping? Or on your phone? You old fool! I love you!

I want to love so much, I want to be held and cherished, I want to hide myself in the crook of your arms. I want to bathe in the depths of your eyes. I want to feel the touch of those fair, pale hands again. I want to hear that heavy breath of yours. I want to eat the warm rice you’ve made with your own hands, the potatoes curry, the ghee, the rice soaked in love—I want to taste it again. I want to write poetry with you, about love, the two of us together. I want to be your palm, trembling with joy at your slightest touch! I want you in everything I do. I want you, I want you, I want you! I only want you. I want to grow old with my old man, to become old together with him. I want to be the balm for his pain. Do you remember—maybe you don’t—there was that quarrel between us once, and you said something. It hurt me so much, and I was angry too. After that, I didn’t speak to you for three months. Then one day you posted a status—*”Some girls are so stubborn, they value their stubbornness more than love. They let their stubbornness win.”* You wrote that about me. Ha ha… I knew it. After those three months, I cried and cried at noon and texted your number, “Miss you…” Oh, how you replied at once… So you broke my sulk then?

The fact that among your thousands of Facebook friends, you remembered my sulk, my hurt—it was truly beyond what I could imagine. That you singled out my hurt from all the others and kept it in your heart—I couldn’t understand it. Why are you like this! You understand hurt, yet you don’t understand love! Understand, please understand—my love too. You should have said so then. Today I have so much I want to say. Now that your leave has started, you’re home. You check on me once every day. Why is your throat sore, why don’t I take care of myself, how is mother doing—you ask it all. You do everything. But why don’t you love me well? Doesn’t it bother you at all that you don’t love me well? Or is it that it doesn’t matter to you whether you love me or not, so you don’t even bother trying anymore?

I was always telling mother—whether I get a job or not, I’ll have some business, some enterprise. Even if I work, I’ll have a business alongside it. Mother would ask, what kind of business? I’d say, something I can do from home while staying safe, some kind of business.

# It could be like that

Maybe I could just hand over a cake online shop. Mother wants a government job, but if she gets a government job, she’ll be posted away somewhere, and if she goes away, who’ll look after Mother—that doesn’t fit in her head anymore. Anyway, I opened a page. I’m not even that sure why I opened it. Just did it for fun, really. Thought I’d do something instead of sitting idle. Staying busy is good—at least keeps all sorts of twisted thoughts from my head, and that’s what matters. People can say all kinds of things or nothing at all. No point thinking about any of it. Because honestly, nobody’s done anything remarkable for me—I can say that much. Money isn’t the big thing. There are some people whose love baffles me. Don’t know them, haven’t met them, but somehow they believe in me and love me—amazes me every time I see it. I don’t work much, don’t take every order. Cancel a lot of them. Don’t feel like it. Want to be alone a bit, but the sisters won’t let me! Replied to about fifty messages on the page today. Exhausting. But seeing them happy, the exhaustion turns into a smile.

I told you that because I genuinely believed people of all faiths love me dearly. That’s all I had in my head when I said it. So why did you say this today? How could you say such a thing? I loved you setting aside caste, creed, religion—everything. Even if our faiths aren’t the same, have you ever noticed a shortage of love? Did I ever mention religion before? I only said today that people of other faiths also love me very much. When I said other faiths, I meant all people of all faiths. If I’d truly made religion so important, I could never have loved you with my whole heart and soul. My family never taught me to do that. I’ve never liked extremism about religion. If I truly was extreme about religion, I wouldn’t have gone to Loknath Temple, Durgabari, or the ashram and asked the priest to perform worship for you during your crisis. You leave me suspended in questions like this—questions whose answers I know, and despite being completely transparent on every count, I still can’t answer. I just go silent somehow! I can’t explain why I was silent then, but I’m helpless before you.

Tell me, why does love hurt so much? Can you tell me? Look, when I sent you that message, you didn’t even see it for ages. Maybe you were looking at someone else’s first, because you were active on WhatsApp—I saw it. Listen, will you answer me one thing? Does love only understand the body? Because have I ever tasted your body all this time? Then how did I just go on loving you all this while with nothing? How? You don’t need to answer anything else anymore. I won’t look at your messages anymore. I’ll be you now. Go ahead, I’ll be you. Fine, stay with those people you’ve kept higher on your priority list. I’m leaving anyway. Listen, will you answer me one thing? Swear on me, truly swear—you love her so much, don’t you? When you wrote that piece about her, what was it called…’written on torn scraps of paper’ or something like that…you wrote that about her, didn’t you? You love her so much! And here I am, a fool, wasting my whole life loving you! If I’d called the Creator instead of calling you so many times, I think I’d have found Him too.

# Even After Everything, I Did Not Find You

Even after everything, I did not find you.

Do you place someone in your heart so easily? But I—I never received permission to dwell there. It hurts terribly, and yet I write. My chest drowns in blood, my head is heavy with ache. I wanted you beside me…and you left. Fine. Go. One day I’ll leave too, you’ll see! And listen, just keep watching one thing in your heart—can she stay for five, six years like I have, without hope for anything at all? I can throw down a challenge, throw myself at you completely the way I have. She cannot. She doesn’t have it in her the way I do—to hold you, to keep you. You write of her with such pride, don’t you? She tells her friends that you are her world, her home. Well, people leave their homes sometimes, don’t they? They go to the office, travel somewhere far. Wait and see what happens. And I’ve already told you—you are my entire world. A person can leave the world only once, through death. My whole world is you. You are her home, and you are my world. The rest, you must understand yourself.

Mother lies asleep beside me. I cannot cry out loud. Tears only fall from my eyes, silently. My hand has throbbed all day under the weight of work—sharp, relentless pain. The pain reliever does nothing. I want to scream, to cry so hard my voice breaks. But that’s not who I am. I’ve borne far greater pain than this. The solitude of night has always felt like my own. This time belongs only to me—to speak with myself, to settle accounts. While others are busy talking to someone else at night, I am busy with writing, busy watching stars, busy reconciling numbers. I will never write to you again. I pray to the Creator that the urge to write never comes again. I never lived waiting for you, believing I would have you. I never learned the language of exchange. The give-and-take that comes with expectation—it runs dry. When a person stands alone with such fierce strength, knowing they will never have someone, accepting them completely from the depths of their heart—everything else crumbles beside that person. Today it seems that if there is a gift of love within me, let the Creator take that too. This is my prayer. Often I see that people don’t break under great tragedies, but they shatter from small things. When stubbornness rises, from which direction it comes—it’s hard to explain.

Right beside your indifference, my love still stands.
In your refusal of me, you remain my entire world.
In my intoxication with your victory, my love is still you.