My Dearest Simon

My dearest Simon,

War is hard without you.

I thought the hardest part about being a soldier would be what they warned us about – trauma, death, sacrifice. And yet I sit in this uncomfortable cot, and I think only of you. If you were here, I could already imagine what you’d say to me.

Go to sleep already, August. It’s late, August. Just breathe, August.

But I can’t. I toss and I turn, and I cannot sleep the way I do when you hold me. You held me the night before they called my name off of that list, before I left that morning. Do you miss me as much as I miss you?

I do not know how to tell you this, as these inky pages cannot look into your eyes the way I wish to, but Felix is dead. He was a good man, Simon. You always had a good judge of character, and you were right about him as usual. He was very kind to me, taught me the way of life in the bases and camps, and introduced me to most of my friends and comrades now.

He was shot as we travelled to the next post, foreign officers we did not recognise. No insignia, nothing. I suppose that makes it all the more frustrating; I do not have anyone to blame except a face I do not recognise.

I will miss Felix, but the rush and pace of war is making it hard to take a moment and mourn him. Simon, do not be disheartened. I will not end up like Felix, I swear. I will live for you, the way I did before they called my name. I am the same man, and I keep the same promises.

I’ve heard stories of letters getting lost, so I am sending every prayer that this makes it to you. The pain in your eyes the day I left is seared into my brain, your words of goodbye haunt me while I trek through these foreign lands. So please, send me a letter back. Give me something else to hold on to. I will be home soon, Simon.

Love,

August

August,

Even as I read your words, I can hear them in my ear.

When I read about Felix, I was devastated. You are right, August, he was a good man. One deserving of a much better fate than being so carelessly murdered. I cannot begin to imagine how that must’ve been like for you, how all of this is changing you.

I know it is selfish, but I hope it does not change you too much. I worry that when you come back, you will be an August I don’t remember, or one that has hardened too fast. I know it is hard to find a moment to process, but please try. I do not wish grief and shock to congeal you into a person I do not know.

When I think of you, my chest aches. I feel like a schoolchild is using my heart as a trampoline, jumping up and down over and over. I still love you, even though I know you were worried I would not. But the town still talk, still rumour. Their disgust hurts me, August. It wasn’t so hard to face when you were home.

If we are so forbidden, so distasteful, so disgusting, why do we love and yearn the way the rest of our country does? Are we truly so repulsive? Your name and those do not even come close in my mind, and I cannot wrap my head around the fact that they are supposed to link.

I know you are worried of shame, August, but love is supposed to be easy. This does not feel easy. Sitting at home knowing you could be hurt at every minute does not feel easy.

I wish you would come back sooner, but I know that is it not an option. I pray for you too, that you make it out safer than Felix and others before you. My mother used to tell me that soldiers fell so their comrades could run. I think you should run, August. Run quicker then their bullets, because I can’t imagine a world where they catch you.

Love,

Simon

My dearest Simon,

I know it is hard without me. I know this because it is hard here without you.

I feel trapped here, Simon. They push and they scream and they fire, over and over and over. All I want is to scream back, to fight, or admittedly, to cry. I feel like they are not hearing me, but you always hear me.

My tour will be over soon, and I can come back home. But soon doesn’t feel soon enough. I have said a lot about what I feel but, my love, I think a lot too. When I sit on my cot, eyes at the ceiling of the canvas tent we’re squished into – I think.

I think of how I miss your breakfasts, the way you know how I like my eggs. I think of how when I get home, I will never leave your side. In fact, you may grow sick of me. But I would prefer that to this isolation. I think of how the sun rises in the morning back home, and I don’t dread the day. In fact, now that I have written it, most of what I think is what I feel as well.

You said I should run, Simon, and I am trying. Every step I take is powered by memories of us, of the new ones we will create when I get home. I will not let them catch me, they don’t deserve to steal our future, our happiness.

Simon, you must remember what is important. It is not them, not the gossipers or the men who talk. Not the ugly words or nasty glances. It is us that is important. We have given up everything for each other, and we must not falter in the face of adversity. We must show them, Simon, that we are more than that. That we are just men, who love deeply.

I know they will not understand, but I hope you will.

Love forever,

Your August

My dearest Simon,

You did not reply to my last letter, so I ought to try again. I know that missing letters is extremely common, especially as transport rules and regulations tighten here. But there’s a part of me that wants to think through your eyes. And I know what you would think. But letters are private, Simon. They would not read it, much less refuse to send it because of its contents.

The men can judge and talk and stare, but they must not interfere with the letters. With us. Don’t they know that we are all each other are hanging onto?

I hope this letter does find you, and when it does, I will rewrite my last letter with every drop of heart I wrote it the first time.

Love,

August

My dearest Simon,

This is my fifteenth letter.

I am not counting days anymore, but I think they must have cut off our communication, Simon. I’m sorry we are this way. I am sorry we both chose to love someone that does not function in this world as we wished. You deserve better.

My tour was supposed to end last month, but it is too difficult for a safe journey home. We are continuing forward until the relief team can reach us. I will be home soon, and then no letters can separate us ever again.

Love,

August

Dear August,

It’s been both heartwarming and heartbreaking to read your last letters. In truth, I thought you would give up writing, and then your sorrow would lessen. But you are persistent, and it is obvious you love deeply.

However, I have letters of my own, and they are getting drowned by your stories of love and war. You must imagine how difficult it must be for me to tell you this, but please stop mailing to this address.

I can not reply any longer, for my own heart and soul, but also because, August, Simon is dead.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Huntington