My dear friend,
This will complete my narrative, over which we recently spoke. I thank you for your indulgence while I complete my story, for you will surely need these details to help you form your opinion and subsequently give your advice.
It was in the elevator, on that last day of her business trip, that I knew we were destined for something more - but I never imagined that it would end up like this.
The space was small and confining; we stood so close that every breath I took contained her essence; the intoxicating fragrance left me paralysed. I could not find the words to ask her to stay, to get acquainted - the moment passed as the doors opened.
That elevator ride was the last time I would see her for sixteen months.
We wrote and I told her all about my life, what there was to tell of it, for then I was but a young man. As my mother might have said, "Still a boy in the ways of women."
I couldn’t get her out of my mind and back at university I lost focus of my studies; my grades slipped. She was in my blood; I needed to see her and get to know her.
A trip was planned; I would visit her at the end of my final year. Time was slow to pass and as the months stretched on my youthful inexperience confused my longing for her for love.
I professed that she was my dream and my reality, all wrapped together in one, and without hesitation I mailed these thoughts.
It is torturous recalling it now, dear friend, but I must. I must suffer deeply, for I need to feel the same anguish that I have burdened her with.
The look in her eyes, I shall not forget. I am a flawed man for not seeing what lie behind her stoic and severe exterior as she reprimanded me for my writings.
My writings, that professed my love and my longings, had confused her; she wanted my written words spoken, but alas I could not find the words. Ashamed and riddled with guilt I drew inward and this infuriated her.
She was like no woman I had ever known - although admittedly I had known few, but her disdain and vile disrespect was palatable and tasted like bitter medicine. I taste it now as I put pen to paper.
My dear friend, as you read this you will undoubtedly feel my pain, yet I confess I am certain she suffered equally and possibly much more.
I must continue setting the tone, for in our last communication I left you wanting.
After returning home, life was void of colour and walking through my days, weeks and even the years had become a challenge. The challenge lie in hiding my true feelings from those closest to me, including the woman I married four years after my return.
Do not judge me harshly for marrying a woman I did not love; a man needs companionship and affection though both lacked lustre in my colourless world. But try as I might to fit in and appear contented with my life I could not ignite my heart - this was my undoing.
When my wife left, my only regret was not feeling anything; I was devoid of the emotions needed to release her with dignity. She told me she had always known she was second in my heart but had mistakenly, as often is the case with youth, thought she would be enough for me.
Such a man as myself cannot be deserving of a second chance, do you agree, my dear friend? Yet recently, when the opportunity for this second chance came upon me unexpectedly, what do you think I did?
I can scarce look at myself let alone confess my own failings; to do so would surely cause you to think less of me.
In my momentary madness I let her go, and as she looked over her shoulder one last time, she smiled. I wanted to go after her but the moment passed and she was gone.
I ask you, my dear friend, what recourse do I have? What are your recommendations?
With great anticipation I await your answer, in hopes that your wisdom will light the way in this dark tunnel I now call home.
Has momentary madness caused you regret?