Winchester, England
United Kingdom
June 2010
i.
Aether can’t find the words.
Crumpled sheets of paper sit in piles on her study table; a sharpener wearily waits for her to resharpen her pencil. She gnaws her lip, glances at the paper in front of her, reads the sentence written and groans—and the same paper ends up in the pile.
She wasn’t a wordsmith, no, never. That was Lysette’s thing—Lysette had the words and the art to let her thoughts speak. All Aether could do was play something on the piano and sing the words to a song that had caught her attention the other day. She wasn’t like Lysette who would conjure great things from her subconscious. She wasn’t like Lysette who could put her vision into art. She was barely like Lysette but that didn’t bother her at all because Lysette was—she was fantastic.
Aether shakily writes the statement onto a piece of scratch paper. You’re fantastic, she writes in a messier print way different from her normal one. Twelve or so other statements come before that one, a few of them crossed out. All of them hold compliments, praise. Praises she had told Lysette time and time again, but the redhead’s reaction would always be the same.
She’d blink, then grin. Aether recalls. She smiles a little bit; it tugs at the corner of her mouth. She would try to deny it but would end up accepting it anyway. And the tips of her ears or her nose would get a little red. The image flashes in her mind and she can’t help but smile more—until, at least, time catches up to her and she realises what she’s doing. The smile disappears instantly and she groans into her hands, blushing herself and gripping the pencil tighter.
“I’m a mess.”
She had to finish the letter immediately. She was leaving in a week and time was running out. Thankfully, Lysette had decided to take a supplementary class and wouldn’t be back until right before dinner. Aether thought that Lysette’s absence would make the entire process much easier, but she was so, so wrong.
It was hard. It was hard to put feelings to paper, more so that she wasn’t a writer. Aether wrote, but those pieces were for school. Academic writing. Writing from the heart was, if anything, troubling. Hassling. Difficult, even, considering that she wasn’t the most emotional of people—
Except when around Lys, she accuses herself. I’m much more different when I’m around her, almost like a different person. Almost…almost like I’m happier or something. The thought leaves, and is replaced with oh no.
Aether never thought that at eighteen, she’d be struggling to write a letter with her goodbyes and a confession addressed to her best friend. She chews her bottom lip, nervous, and wonders if it’s the right thing to do.
(But it is, it is. Lysette deserved to know.)
She exhales, breathes in, and then exhales again. She tries to calm her nerves, tries to get a firm grip on her pencil without fear of breaking it. Aether hesitates, then writes something on the paper filled with lines and phrases and sentences to be used.
I’ve liked you for a really, really long time now.
It was a start.
—
Aether’s Apartment
Atlanta, GA
United States of America
August 2012
ii.
She doesn’t know how to tell him.
Aether can’t even think of his name—it’s reached the point where in she would flinch. And flinching, typically, was never a good sign. So instead, she pulls a random name—Tristan—and uses it as a placeholder for him.
“Tristan,” she tries. She’s facing the mirror, sees herself. She sees herself falter and hesitate. Aether hates it. “Tristan, I. I want to break up with you. It doesn’t feel right.” In her mind, she sees his brown eyes widen and hears the demand of ‘why’, but she carries on with a tremble in her voice. “It doesn’t feel right anymore. This entire thing doesn’t feel right. I thought—I thought it would get better, but it hasn’t. I’m…I’m tired of trying. I’m sorry.”
The ‘Tristan’ in her head gives an array of emotions—shocked, enraged, upset, sad. The third is the most likely, as is a combination of second and fourth. Aether balls her fists, exhales though her mouth. “I can’t do this anymore,” she tells the reflection. “I can’t do it anymore. I’m—”
And she stops herself. Once she would step over that line, it would be over. She knew how much ‘Tristan’ disliked the term, but she’s been feeling it for weeks and she wants out. Lysette urged her to pull out. Tadashi told her to do what felt right, but even she could feel that Tadashi hated seeing her like this.
Lysette and Tadashi, two people she trusted to the grave, wanted her to get out.
(That should have been a big enough sign.)
“I’m tired,” she hears herself admit quietly. It feels like a weight is dragging itself off her chest slowly. “I’m tired of giving and waiting. I’m…I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore. It’s not good for us.”
Lysette urged her to be selfish, Tadashi told her to think of herself.
But Aether still wanted to get out for her and Tristan’s sakes. It wasn’t right.
“It’s not right,” she repeats. “That we keep hurting each other like this.” It’s not right, a piece of her whispers, that you keep hurting me like this. And I want out.
—
Aether’s Apartment
Atlanta, GA
United States of America
October 2016
iii.
It takes her a while to say the words to him.
Mathieu hasn’t said anything about it, and Aether isn’t sure whether to be relived or not. She knows that he’s noticed; but Mathieu isn’t the type to speak up. Especially when he knows that Aether’s still doing her best to recover.
She tries to tell him. Tries to open her mouth and wills for the words to come out, but they taste bitter in her mouth, sound hollow in her head. Aether wishes to tell him, but her heart hurts far too much to even say those words without feeling a slash of pain, a kind of hesitation she wishes she didn’t have.
I can’t believe this, she thinks, Mathieu’s supposed to be the one, but—
The words don’t feel right. Not yet.
They carry on with life. Mathieu does his best to make up, Aether does her best to tell him that she does but the words don’t feel like anything and that’s how she knows she isn’t ready. She almost ends up telling him when they’re both lying in bed, heartbeats racing and hormones running a little high, but she doesn’t. Aether looks at him, feels his fingers gently cupping her cheek, but she doesn’t tell him.
All she can say: “I’m sorry.”
And he replies: “Don’t be.”
At that point, he had to be tired already. Aether felt it—felt that he was tired of waiting and wanted to leave, and she expected for it to happen. She woke up with fear only to see him by her side, comfortably sleeping most of the time with his red hair in his eyes. The thought nearly baffled her.
Maybe he’s staying for good this time around.
She fought to speak the words, and they tasted less bitter eventually. Less bitter, more longing. She wanted the words to come out, but the timing didn’t seem right.
It eventually came one day. They were curled up on the couch, having just traded lazy kisses. He had his hands on her shoulders and Mathieu gently rubbed the knots and worries away, humming along as he did it. Aether kept her eyes closed, waiting for him to finish.
He eventually took his hands away and she leaned against him, burying her face in his chest. Mathieu wrapped his arms around her, held her a little tight to him and smiled down at her despite her not seeing.
And then it came. A mumble, quiet. He blinked. “Yes, sweetheart?”
The mumble came again, and she eventually looked up at him, feeling a little shy. Aether swallowed, clutched to the front of his shirt. “I…”
He waited. She took a deep breath. “I love you,” she told him quietly, “And I forgive you.”
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