Dear Beatrice
After Mary and Shannon had forced her to have a shower and breakfast the next day, Ava had gone home. She had never liked being alone, but for once she wanted to take her time and reflect.
It was weird, having a flat of her own. She had never had that – had gone from sharing a room at the orphanage, to living in the student’s house, to co-living with her ex to moving in with Mary and Shannon temporarily. She had had her own room, but never her own apartment and it did make her feel lost. The apartment still didn’t have a lot besides the kitchen and the bathroom. There was a table with chairs in the kitchen, some shelves and cupboards for her belongings and a big mattress on the floor, where she had been sleeping these past days. Next to the mattress there was the nightstand Mary and Shannon had gifted her, because she had grown fond of it. It was where she stored her personal things, locked away in the top drawer, which had a key.
Ava sat down on the mattress, opened the drawer and got out a paper that was already starting to yellow from the many times Ava had gotten it out, read through it and made additions or crossed out lines in the past 5 years. Her chicken scratch contrasted starkly with Beatrice’s neat and beautiful handwriting, but she had always found that they still kind of fit.
Being reminded of Beatrice did make her heart feel heavy, but she read through the list anyways. There were several crossed out bullet points – like learning how to swim, reading a chapter of the bible (yes, she HAD done that), learn how to ballroom dance (the basics). But some were still open. Like the infamous getting arrested, which she didn’t plan on ever making true, or the floating in the blue lagoon or ride a motorbike. Her eyes got drawn to another untouched point though. One which was added among the last points of the list that Beatrice had written. Ava let her thumb trace the words, while remembering.
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“Have you ever written a love letter?”, she had asked Beatrice with a cheeky grin, some time into their evening.
Beatrice had blushed adorably. “Does a poem count?”, she had asked.
That had taken Ava by surprise and made her stomach summersault. Which was ridiculous, because she had never cared much for poetry. And now she couldn’t think of anything more appealing than having Beatrice read a self-written poem to her.
“You write poems?”
Beatrice dug her head a bit shyly and shrugged. “Sometimes.”, she mumbled, and then added a bit more clearly: “I’m not very good talking about how I feel. It is easier for me in poems.”
Ava found that incredibly cute. “So you wrote a love poem for a girl?”
“Yeah…”
“And what did she say?”
That made Beatrice’s eyes shoot open instantly in shock. “I didn’t give it to her!”, she quickly clarified, looking highly appalled.
Ava blinked. “So that girl never got the poem?”
“God no!” Beatrice was definitely blushing and avoiding any kind of eye contact with Ava now.
It made Ava giggle. “I’m sorry, but that doesn’t count then.”, she decided, but then added with a soft grin: “Though it is very romantic. And very cute.” There was that blush again and that timid smile that had made Ava’s heart skip so many beats already that night. A moment of silence followed, while Beatrice took a sip of her drink and Ava wrote a new point on Beatrice’s list. It said 'Give or read a self-written poem to the person it is written for'. Beatrice quietly watched her, then nervously bit her lip.
“Does that mean you wrote a love letter to someone and gave it to them?” Beatrice’s voice was steady, but she did sound a bit unsure.
Ava shrugged. “Well, I mean, yeah. In freshman year I did that sometimes.”
Beatrice looked at her sceptically. “Write love letters?”
The flabbergasted look Beatrice gave her made her chuckle. “Well, I mean, not something as romantic as your poems.” She did not miss how Beatrice blushed again. “But these typical love notes you would give to the boy or girl you liked.”
Now Beatrice furrowed her eyebrows. “You mean the 'Do you want to go out with me, yes, no, maybe' ones?”, she asked slowly.
“Yeah, exactly.”, Ava laughed.
“Excuse me, but that does not count either.” The dry, decisive tone in Beatrice’s voice made Ava look up in surprise. “What? But…”
“That’s not a love letter.”, Beatrice cut her off with an eyeroll, but when she continued, she sounded sincere: “A real love letter is true and romantic and heartfelt. It is about love. That’s why it is called a love letter.”
Another pause, and then she got Ava’s list and wrote something down. Ava was about to protest when she saw the words 'Write a sincere love letter' being written out in Beatrice’s handwriting, but the earnest look Beatrice gave her, when she looked up the second Ava opened her mouth, made her so nervous she just sighed. “Damn, fine.”, she muttered and watched how Beatrice added 'and give it to the person it is intended for', while feeling her face heat up. “But I am really bad at writing letters.”, she whined. “I have horrible handwriting and I tend to ramble and make stupid jokes when I am nervous.”
Beatrice set aside the pencil and just smiled at her. “Maybe a letter is a good way for you to express your feelings then.”, she suggested and there was a teasing gleam in her eyes that made Ava swallow deeply. “Then you can think about what you want to say and then reread it and cross out all the nervous rambling and inappropriate joking before giving it to your person.”
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Ava chuckled a bit at the memory. Then she put down the bucket list, sat back up and got out another set of papers, carefully folded in the middle. She opened the papers and was met with her own messy handwriting. The page she was met with contained the most recent writing and still had a lot of space left to fill. Ava put it aside, as well the upcoming papers until she got to the last one, a different, slightly wrinkled kind of paper with a hotel logo printed on it. She let herself fall back onto the mattress, while holding the paper up in front of her face and reading it.
Dear Beatrice,
I am sorry I am not here with you right now. I am sorry I left without saying goodbye. I wish I could have stayed. I wish I could have woken up with your arms around me without feeling overwhelmed. I wish I was less scared. I wish I was sure of what I want. I wish I could say that I was ready for everything I know we could have. But the truth is I am not sure if I am ready. Maybe I could be ready. Maybe I will be ready soon. But you deserve more than a maybe. You deserve someone who is sure. And right now that is not me. I want to be. I really do. But I am not.
Maybe I just need some time to think and sort myself out. And I haven’t been able to think straight for a single moment since I saw you walking down the stairs at the wedding yesterday night. You looked captivating and I can truly say I have never been more mesmerized by a person’s presence in my life.
And now I am watching you sleep and you are so breathtakingly beautiful I can barely keep my eyes off you long enough to write these words. I just want you to know that yesterday night was… I can’t even describe it. It was amazing. I have never felt that way with anyone.
I know you are moving back here. And I know I will see you again someday soon, somehow. I hope when I do, I will be ready and sure and not scared anymore – and maybe lucky enough that you still want me.
Until we meet again.
Love,
Ava
She had added the last words in the taxi on her way home after the wedding, ending the letter with an awkwardly drawn heart. She had stored the letter away in her nightstand with the bucket list and had forced herself to not get either one out and think about what could have been countless nights after. And she hadn’t, until after they had met again at Camila’s and Lilith’s housewarming party.
Now there were more words added - thoughts, reflections, declarations. They always started with a Dear Beatrice next to the date of the writing and were signed with Love, Ava. She had added more papers, too, when the first page was filled up with different coloured text blocks about what every encounter with Beatrice made her feel.
There were some short letters, like the ones that just read:
Dear Beatrice,
Wow, just wow.
Love,
Ava
or
Dear Beatrice,
How is it possible to look so good in a god-damn hoodie?
Love,
Ava
But most letters were Ava pouring her heart and soul out. There were the desperate, heartbroken and confused pleas to Beatrice to not completely shut her out after Camila’s and Lilith’s housewarming party, when Beatrice had understandably held her at arms’ length. The nervous and panicky rambles about their first none-date and her chaotic thoughts on how to handle it and even what to wear. The countless apologies and numerous times asking for forgiveness for having hurt Beatrice that the other woman wasn’t ready to hear. The swooning and rambling about how beautiful and kind and patient and smart and perfect Beatice was, that should probably be embarrassing, but that Ava still meant exactly like this. The joy over every text message and smiley and later every heart, as well as the agony of waiting for an answer, even if just for half an hour while Beatrice was at work or of staring at her phone for an entire evening wondering if Beatrice was also overthinking whether to text her or just wasn’t thinking of her at all.
Some letters even contained things she talked to her therapist about concerning her past relationships, her tendency to burn through those intensely and quickly, her fear of being alone and pattern of romanticising people without taking her time to actually get to know them.
The admission to herself that yes, she did clearly have deep and true feelings for Beatrice. And the realization that, contrary to with any other person she had ever been romantically interested in, getting to know Beatrice more, her quirks and flaws and everyday life, made her fall in love with her more and not less.
It was all there, in these letters she was never going to send. But maybe it was time. Maybe Beatrice was right and writing it down gave her time to think about what she wanted to say. And maybe it also gave Beatrice time to read it when she was ready.
So she got up, sat down at the kitchen table, got a pen and started writing one last letter.
Dear Beatrice,
You once told me that a love letter should be true and heartfelt and about love and not just some fleeting crush. I told you that I don’t know how to write a love letter. But maybe I just never had a person to write one to until I met you. Or rather until I saw you again.
As you can see, since I saw you again, I haven’t stopped writing letters to you. When I first started writing those letters, it never crossed my mind that I would one day give them to you. But they are full of things I always wanted to tell you anyways, but never did.
So here you have it, my first ever love letter. And my second. And third. And fourth. And all the love letters I have ever written.
Yesterday you told me that you don’t know how I feel about you. And that you don’t know if that night we shared means anything to me at all. I am sorry I ever made you feel like it didn’t. I hope after reading all this you know that this night, and every other day, night and moment we shared, means the world to me. That you mean the world to me. That I can’t stop thinking about you. And that I don’t want to.
I hope you can forgive me for taking so long to tell you. And I hope that you will understand, that even though this is a love letter and I know it is in its name, I will not say more here. Because when I tell you how I feel about you, everything I feel for you, I want to look into your eyes and say it out loud, even if it makes me incredibly nervous. Because that is the least you deserve.
Until we meet again ( and take all the time you need).
Love,
Ava