K S LO ENGLISH

Dear Adeline,

You might be surprised to receive this letter. Well, of course, in an era where holograms are commonly used, it is odd to receive a handwritten letter on paper. Although you might think I am a little bit crazy or delusional, I assure you, this letter expresses my most genuine feelings for you.

I wouldn’t be surprised if you can already guess what I want to tell you. But please, before you answer me, I hope you can read the whole letter.

The first sight of you was dazzling. Even though the scenario in which we met wasn’t that romantic, I was already fascinated by your look. I’ve never had a girlfriend before. You might say my high school life was a little bit boring, but I promise you, you are the first girl to ever catch my attention.

I must say, while writing this letter, I couldn’t stop smiling. Writing this letter reminds me of you smiling at me in the park. Writing this letter reminds me of you wearing that blue dress adorned with diamonds and gems. Writing this letter reminds me of you hugging your cat. Memories flow into my mind like waves crashing onto the shore—I simply cannot stop thinking about you.

Every time I look up at the starry night, I wonder how happy you would be if you could see it too. Or perhaps you are looking at the same stars as I am, amazed by their beauty. Every time I sit by the river, enjoying the sunset, I imagine how romantic it would be if you were by my side, leaning on my shoulder, bathed in its honey-colored light. Every time I sit in Miss Clifton’s garden, I can almost see you there, astonished, feeling the “rainbow” in your hands, your dress dyed by the scent of flowers. I wouldn’t be able to look away from you.

As an early riser, I’ve seen thousands of sunrises and sunsets. The golden sunlight flooding the streets has always stunned me with its magnificence. Yet the more I gazed upon it, the stronger my loneliness became. I’ve seen the blood-orange sun rise upon the horizon, casting red, yellow, and orange hues over clouds as I glanced at the vast blue ocean. It’s a little confusing, but as I take in the beauty of these views, my heart feels blue and calm—like the deep ocean.

Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m not weak enough to let a view make me want to give up on life. I’ve seen thousands of moons hanging in the night sky: harvest moons like gold coins, new moons like baby swans’ feathers. Tell me, as I gaze upon the moon, are you also looking at it? If so, I can feel as though we are together, enjoying this fabulous view.

But looking at these views only makes me lonelier.

My dearest lady, I am now sitting by a very pleasant window. I watch a boy and girl holding hands as they walk down the street. I watch young couples kissing on a bench. I watch older couples enjoying the warmth of the sun as they stroll. Our age has already passed for holding hands as children. Our age has also passed for kissing on a bench. But we aren’t yet old enough to hold hands and enjoy the sun like those older couples. Still, I wish—that someday we will.

For God’s sake, I wish that someday when I wake up, I won’t have to text you, call you, or search for you. I wish that someday when I wake up, the first thing I see is your smile and your beautiful form in a dress. I won’t need to worry about you or miss you because you’ll be right by my side—not thousands of miles away. Do you know how the distance between us is breaking me?

Falling in love with you has made me selfish. I always hope you are by my side, so I can hug you and feel your warmth.

Adeline, you are my dearest person now. I cannot stand a day without you. I need you to appear in my daily life. I need to see you, to hear your voice, to see your smile—it’s what makes my day.

I love that smile that dances across your face. I love those eyes that sparkle with life. I love the way the breeze gently ruffles your hair. I love you. I love everything about you—your strengths, your weaknesses.

I’ve felt the sea breeze on the beach, seen the full moon hanging like a gold coin in my hometown, and stood on the hill overlooking Victoria Harbour. These memories are cherished in my heart. Yet every time I sit and enjoy such scenery, I feel something is missing. Looking back, it is as though I see your silhouette, and I realize that what I’m missing is you.

I’ve done many wonderful things in my life, but I struggle to remember them. I’ve realized that with you, all those moments of excitement are worth it. I would give up all my wonderful memories just to have one moment alone with you. Even if it’s just for a minute, I think it’s worth everything.

Your smiling face, your voice, your bright eyes, your beautiful hair, your incredible heart—all these remain fresh in my mind. You might say, “Others have these qualities too,” and ask why I love you. If you say that, then I have no answer. But I know this: the fact that I love you is the reason I don’t love anyone else.

You are unique. You are you.

I want to settle down with you in a small town in Western Europe, sitting in the reeds to watch the sun slowly sink below the horizon. I want to lie in the grass with you, counting the stars at night.

I want to travel with you to the romantic capital of France, to stand in the magnificent Amiens Cathedral and, in the eyes of God, witness our love.

I want to venture with you to the edge of the world, where snowflakes float from the sky. I want us to stay in a cabin, warmed by a crackling fire, watching the Northern Lights as they stretch across the heavens like ribbons of silk.

Please forgive me if parts of this letter feel disjointed in tone. I assure you, this entire letter can be summarized in just eight letters:

I love you.

Have you noticed me carrying a quill and paper recently? Sometimes I write beside a cottage window. Sometimes I write while lying in bed, only to realize ink has stained the sheets. Sometimes I write while sitting on a bench in the park, chasing the pages as the wind carries them away.

Now, I am sitting beside a rocky beach, using a pebble to weigh down this paper. I should have brought a writing board here—please forgive my poor handwriting.

Apart from the quill and paper, I also brought a book to read on the tram.

The book is called Blue.

It was meant to be a book of philosophy, but I found it isn’t about “To be or not to be.”

Looking at the vast blue sea, I remembered a sentence I once read:

“What I know is that when I met you, my blue fever began. I want you to know that I no longer blame you for it.”

Waves crash upon the shore, the wind tries to blow away my paper, and I wish you were here to enjoy this view with me.

If you were, I wouldn’t have brought paper, a quill, or a book. I would have brought a camera—an old one, the kind that uses film—so I could take photo after photo of you.

I would save all the photos in a book.

As dusk approaches, I would sit by a fireplace with a steaming cup of hot chocolate on the table beside me.

As the fire crackles, I would take some time to admire the photos, smiling and recalling the memories.

When I say “a while,” it could be as short as a quarter of an hour—or much longer, perhaps half an hour or even three-quarters.

I could gaze at a single photo for that long, not because of how picturesque the view is or how well the photo turned out, but because of the memory lying between the ink and the paper.

Memory is what I truly treasure. I try to cherish every moment I spend with you. But time flies when I’m with you.

Before I realize it, your hand has already slipped away from mine, vanishing at the end of the street, becoming nothing more than a small, unrecognizable light.

I can only stand there, watching you walk farther and farther away, powerless to do anything.

Words stick in my throat. My feet are rooted to the ground. My hands are clenched at my sides, unable to send you a message.

I swear, if you turned around and waved at me, I would run to you as fast as I could, like a butterfly drawn to a flower.

To put it in Shakespeare’s words:

I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
I would not wish any companion in the world but you.
I know no ways to mince it in love but directly to say, “I love you.”

You know—or maybe you don’t know—that I wish my drawing skills were better. Then I could sketch the view I’m seeing right now, just for you.

I must say, the sea is the most perfect and beautiful thing ever created in this world.

Watching the waves crash onto the shore, more and more thoughts flood into my mind.

Before I met you, I thought no one could ever truly understand me—not my parents, not my friends, not my co-workers.

But you are different. You are the most special person in my life. You’ve sparked the candle of happiness within me.

It’s as if you already knew my language, as if you could understand the deepest meanings behind my words.

Talking to you feels like the most beautiful, most indulgent, most treasured thing in my life.

I find myself looking forward to talking to you every day—whether it’s hearing your voice or reading your texts.

You mean so much to me. You weigh more in my heart than anything else I have.

I need to express how grateful I am to you. You never knew how important your presence in my life was.

But now you do.

Even so, I must leave this place that has brought me so many thoughts. In the blink of an eye, twilight has arrived.

I can already see the moon hanging on a cyan-like curtain of sky. The stars begin to shine, like needles piercing through cloth.

I have to leave all these beautiful things behind and return home.

Will I be lucky enough to receive a “goodnight” wish from you before I sleep?

Please tell me I will. Your words, your voice, and your love mean more to me than anything else.

It’s as though your love is a key. While others who love me might wish to lock me in a cage—a mockingbird forced to sing for their amusement—you set me free.

Or perhaps your love is like a breeze. I cannot see it or smell it, but I can feel it. It’s neither too strong nor too soft. It’s perfectly paced, the perfect balance, allowing me to give myself entirely to you.

To my dearest Adeline, nature has given her best to you. You hold all her gifts in your hands. You’re smart, you’re alluring, and you’re perfect.

I want to spend every second with you—holding your hand, sitting beside you, watching the wind ruffle your hair. Just being with you, that is all I want every day.

Adeline, you mean too much to me. Love has made me weak, made me timid, made me a man who might be called a minnow.

Yet love has also made me see the world differently. Even though I’m anxious around you, nervous with you, and sometimes stutter in your presence, I still did it.

Writing this letter took so much of my courage. Every single word made me stop and think for a while.

Yet I still deliver this letter to you.

Love has made me timid, but it has also made me brave.

You don’t know how many nights without you have broken my spirit. Lying in bed without you is daunting. Closing my eyes at night has become my greatest fear.

I wish I could wake you during the blue hour, playing your favorite record, only to hear you whine about how early it is.

So, Adeline, if you are reading this and haven’t yet burned the letter, I ask you to come downstairs and look for me.

I’ll be sitting on the bench in the park, the sunlight filtering through the leaves, shining onto the pages of my book.

If you accept my love, please don’t say anything. Just walk slowly to me and lean on my shoulder. I will read to you a sentence that I love the most.

To me, it might not be the most romantic thing we will ever experience in our lives, but that moment will become our most romantic day.

However, heartbreakingly, if you reject me, please gently leave this letter beside me on the bench.

I will continue reading, trembling as I do.

Adeline, you have brought happiness to my life. But I am not satisfied with the relationship we currently share.

All human beings are greedy. I wish to have a greater share of your love.

To my dearest Adeline, I love you, and I will love you for the rest of my life.

Sincerely,

Adonis

This week,

I’ve never been able to succeed at anything.

I started to feel,

“Is there something wrong with me?”

Then,

I began to monitor every move of my soul,

Seven times.

But I found,

These seven times,

I despised it too.

 

The first time,

Between wide cobblestone avenues and thorny paths,

It chose the former.

 

The second time,

Between lust and reason,

It chose the former.

 

The third time,

Seeing its untended fruit trees failing to bear fruit,

It stole other people’s work.

 

The fourth time,

It could have climbed to the top of the mountain,

But it chose to live halfway up the mountain.

 

The fifth time,

It feared the strong,

But mocked the weak.

 

The sixth time,

It was weak,

But thought that’s how it should be.

 

The seventh time,

It wanted to change,

But it was all talk.

 

I wanted to scold the soul,

But the shaper of souls,

Is me.

(Inspired by “Seven Times I Have Despised My Soul” by Khalil Gibran)

The day after the tragedy,

I sat on my bed, waiting for sunrise.

I climbed off my bed and slipped on my slippers.

I rinsed the dishes and did the laundry.

I fried some eggs and sprinkled some salt on them.

I slotted the bread in the toaster and waited for it to become toast.

I washed an orange and squeezed it into a juice glass.

I washed the pan, I washed the dishes, I cleaned the stove.

Just like the day I left.

The morning was splendid.

The day after the tragedy,

I sat in the park, waiting for someone to sit beside me.

I watched a jogger run past me, he didn’t even glance my way.

I watched a dog walker stride past me, the dog didn’t even bark at me.

I watched a toddler waddle past me, the child pointed at the apple tree behind me.

I really enjoyed sitting in the park.

Just like the day I left.

The day after the tragedy,

I settled on the couch, waiting for my family to utter a word.

My mom, who was clutching one of my watches, scrubbed it over and over until she couldn’t.

The watch was spotless, it was sparkling, but it was frozen at the time I left.

My dad, who was holding a note I wrote, read it over and over until he couldn’t.

The note was mundane, it was crumpled, but the ink was still as vivid as the day I left.

My brother, who was holding a pen of mine, clicked it over and over until he couldn’t.

The pen wasn’t very expensive, it was flawed, but the ink flowed as smoothly as the day I left.

The room was silent, I could hear a pin drop.

I liked sitting on the couch.

Just like the day I left.

The day after the tragedy.

I tried talking to the body in the morgue.

I smiled at him.

I talked about the sunrise, I talked about breakfast.

I talked about the jogger, I talked about the dog walker.

I talked about the couch, I talked about his parents.

The day after the tragedy.

I sat next to my coffin.

It was drizzling, everyone held an umbrella.

I perched on my tombstone, waiting for them to leave, waiting for the rain to end.

I regretted what I had done, I tried to reenter the body.

But all there was,

Dead silence.

 

Inspiration from the poem——The Morning After I Killed Myself by Meggie Royer