In every love story, there is a tragedy. 

I searched for you in every fleeting strip of light. And as always, you failed to show near this lighthouse or the rolling peaks of seawater beneath it.  

This was your lighthouse until you decided you were sick of simply watching sailors and sailed off on the Fulminare to the Mainlands. I am telling you this in advance, so it will not come as too much of a shock upon your return—you are not getting this lighthouse back; I have warmed to every beam and block that builds it up.

I took Liberty to the lake yesterday. Whenever we went there, you would insist on carrying her. Not a speck could afford to be out of place on her smooth lacquer. Perhaps you were afraid I would ruin that. The neighbors would joke that your attitude was like that of a mother towards her daughter. 

Yesterday, I had her all to myself. I pushed her a little ways into the lake, and she went in with a small splash, rustling the reeds along the muddied grass as she slid. I shifted my feet and took in the lake’s landscape to pass the time. I observed as the ripples around her stilled, and eventually dissipated. This little habit of mine always poked at your patience. You would say there is no need to wait; the boat would break its stillness as soon as I climbed in anyways. On especially tense days, you would simply demand me to get in without waiting. I wanted to tell you that I hated how rickety it felt under my feet when I gave in to your demands. Even if it was all in my head. I wanted to tell you how, as I would gaze into the water while you rowed, every strike of your oar made me sick. Still, back then I held my tongue, because I did not want to be graced with the look on your face that would follow if I gave voice to my anxieties. 

As I climbed into the boat, I shook with disgust for the waters around it. To suppress my sentiments, I reminisced about gentler times, when you first loved me, when you were less anxious and busy and frustrated, how you would love me again when I found you. I flinched as the water, which had caught on the hem of my dress, stung at my skin underneath. Its icy touch was relentless, devoid of mercy, chills and dreadings coursing through my body. Not like you; you were merciful, the kind that stained the streets with your smiles. I hated that about you. I wish you knew how to keep your smile locked away so people would not think you wanted a mistress. That is why I was content with the agonizing words we exchanged behind closed doors, because perhaps that meant you had learned to rage. 

Yet, after all my efforts to suppress my anxieties and maneuver myself to sit in the boat, I could not even pick up the oars to row Liberty. Maybe it was because she was too precious to you, or maybe I could not bear to put myself through this watery torture when you were not here. I had hoped that somehow, I would close my eyes and you would be with me, rowing, on our lake. At these moments I recall how troubled your face was before the trip, convinced I would never learn to love this now-emptied tower in your stead. I wish you would come back, Oliver. I miss you.

Your hat still hangs in our bedroom, facing the window, searching, searching. I draped a cloth over it. It may be the only thing in this lighthouse that is subject to my hatred. You wore it when we first met, beaming as you greeted me. You would never smile that way again, not at me. 

I was your sky. There was a time you looked up to me. But now, I am just your ceiling.

She was your sea. The fountain to quench your curiosities. A hedonist, free of our responsibilities. She took you cliff diving. Something out of my capabilities. I hated the sea; she gave you a wave of adrenaline, and I took care of your fever after.

I write to you in my lilac nightgown, yes, the one with the seams you used to trace your fingers over, wondering why I had to fuss over creating a nightgown with my own handiwork rather than purchase a finer one from the market. 

The news of the Fulminare’s sinking must still be the talk of the town. My back still stings with looks of pity. Although, I suppose, that is not a new development. My back stung the first few times rumors emerged about a secret rendezvous involving you; my back stung still when you and Stefanie boarded the ship together, loud murmurs in the background. 

I wonder if you would have returned if the choice was yours to make. The other day, I found myself guiding my fingers along our gilded photographs, each a different memoir of what we used to be. Two fingers reached to pluck a photo from the pile. I held it to the candlelight, unwilling to loosen my fingers. The moments encapsulated within these photographs were priceless to me. 

But perhaps, for you, the sea was far lovelier than the sky.

After a long pause, I lift up my pen, and in its stead is a black splotch, still slowly seeping its way through the parchment. 

Smoothing it over on the oak desk, I run one fingernail over the letter to crease it and seal it neatly in an envelope. I hold it to the candlelight, observing the way the parchment and the ink shines through the thin material of the envelope. 

With a steady hand, I dip the envelope downwards toward the flame. As a charred, blackish color consumes it, the material contorts inward, curling up into itself dreadfully. It would only take one touch for it to fragment and collapse into ash. 

In our love story, we left more words unspoken than not.