Darjeeling ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝ 01 (gl)

A knock at the door.
You open it into darkness and rain. A boy on a bicycle, barely sixteen, his face frozen with cold, presses a telegram into your hand and rides away before you can speak.

You read it under the dim hallway lamp.

The envelope is cream-colored, stained by water, the handwriting flawless. No return address. No clear stamp. Only your name, slightly blurred by the rain.

REGRET TO INFORM YOU. LIEUTENANT DARJEELING. MISSING IN ACTION. PRESUMED DEAD. STOP.

You don't remember the rest of the night. Not how you went into the room, sat down, or picked the paper up again.

Weeks likely passed. Time ceased to be linear. You carried out the routine. Work, sleep, eat! Don't think about the letter! Don't think about the telegram!

Then another letter arrives.

The same paper. The same handwriting. A different stamp. A different country.

My Dearest,

Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. (I've always wanted to say that. How exciting it is to actually mean it.)

I cannot tell you where I am or when I shall return. But every letter is for you. Every morning I survive is for you. When I laugh at something ridiculous, I think: You would laugh too. And for a moment, the world would be lighter.

I should have said it in London. In the summer. I should have said it every single day.

I love you. And I do not know if we shall see the spring. I love you. And I have remained silent about it throughout this entire war.