I followed Marius back down the narrow streets until we came to another house on the other side of The Artists’ District. He lived on an equally tiny and ancient street called Voie de Fil which had all the doors of the houses splattered in paint – by design or accident I wasn’t sure. He grabbed my hand and pulled me up a very narrow flight of stairs to a much-splattered door, which he quickly unlocked. “Come on,” he whispered. I followed him into a wooded hallway and in through a little door which led to a tiny room with a desk and two chairs and an inkpot and a quill and lots of parchment. I sat down hurriedly – hardly thinking – and there I began my letter. A letter from Sylvester.
My Dear Camille
I do not wish to run away with you
I am not in love with you. I never have been. I never will be. Please do not see me again.
Marius informed me that I should strike through the first line. So I did. I handed it to him and wiped my eyes. With a swift kiss, I left the little flat for what would be the last time.
I spent a long time that evening imagining Camille’s reaction to the news the letter brought: that Sylvester – My Love – was never in love with her. Was she heartbroken? Though I had never met the girl I so so hoped she was heartbroken. I wanted to punish her for trying to take him away from me. Who was she to hope to steal him away from me? I had waited for him for a deafeningly long nine months and I had loved him every moment we had been apart and still even now, when I still somehow truly believe he loves me, even though he seemingly planned to disappear from my life once more and run away with her in his arms.
I still loved Sylvester and it was at that moment in my life that I realised I would always love Sylvester.
As I pondered over what I had done I began that it did not really matter to me how Camille felt and yet – and this dazzled me – I had still sort to hurt her and I was not about to attempt to make a mends for one good reason; it felt good. I was reveling in the very thought of her in misery, the same misery and melancholia I had felt for the brutally long nine months that I had been forced to spend away from my lover.
I looked over from the table where I had been writing to the piano where Sylvester was gently playing The Great Gate of Kiev by Mussorgsky. He looked somewhat sad. He stared at his sheets of music with a stare that seemed to lack its usual passionate flare. I wondered why. I had not confronted him about Camille, nor did I intend to for I could not face the prospect of all of this becoming real. I could not face the fact that Sylvester Spence Palvine may have loved - love – someone else. He would always be mine and mine alone in my eyes.