“My dearest.” She stopped reading. The letter unfolded love. Faith. He had not told her because he knew if he had it would have been impossible to say goodbye. He, “and only he,” had decided not to act and so, all year, floated in a kind of purgatory. “But maybe,” he wrote, “in another time, another place. Maybe on an island together.” Resorting to the cliche, and giving himself up to selfishness, under the pretext of the so called, love.
How many loves missed? That’s not a question that I have asked. It’s one that people like the writer, Mai Al-Nakib, have asked. How many people in the world to love, but never? But why…
How could he have withheld a year of new love, maybe the best, maybe just ordinary? “He loved her. She, the most dear to him that whole year. The word girl’s heart raced…”
But no. He decided. She decided, or not? Love is a fantasy, in a silver dress in the shed of the dawn. Or maybe it’s the dark filled brown eyes, passionately silenced. Or maybe it’s the phantom of that secret touch, and forbidden kiss, and upraised lust. Or, maybe, just maybe, it’s the selfish walk of pride seen under the shadow of the dark…when love is questioned, or the power of love is undermined…why love? why try? or why even reach out for love?
She never answered. He decided. She never had the chance to answer. He walked away.
She said. He tried. She cried. He cried.
Surrender. Not for love. They surrendered to life…but they never gave up. Love never gave up on them?
They held hands. They loved it.