Under the same sky.

20^th August, 1915.

As I write this letter, I have had a cruel intervention and have decided that I will restrain myself from reading any more of your letters until we stand on a mutual term. As of now I lie down on my small cottage, the letter placed on the drawer, trying to maintain a state of apparent calm, my heart beats through my entire body and is conscious only of you. I belong to you; there is no other way of expressing it, and that is not strong enough. Each time I read one of your letters or end one of mine I try not to disregard myself of other chores in this sudden outburst, though unable to do so, I do not know of any great reason that would serve such a purpose. And for this exact reason, is why I do not wish to know of the everlasting love we share. If I did, how could I, fool that I am, go on sitting in my office, or here at home, instead of leaping onto a train with my eyes shut and opening them only when I am with you?”
Love,
Jonathan.
30^th August, 1915.

Since when did we started breaking apart, is not something I have a very fond or strong memory of, but my heart is as yours as yours is mine. As I read this letter of yours I find myself in an odd and painful dilemma, when on one hand my arm aches to reach out for the pen to write you an answer, my other hand stops itself since it’ll only increase your pain, my love. Curse fall upon the Gods, for lo and behold, here we are separated once again. I confess of my guilt for being unable to restrain myself, for which you have my promise that I’ll keep and will write to you no letter, but once in a week. You renounce and exclude all that might be of the flesh in our affection, allowing me only some kisses, civil and honest, such as you might grant your little cousins. And yet what I am conceiving is something no other soul has or will ever do, allowing me to be bonded in your love, that no other man will share, just the same as yours. Your love for everyone maybe equally distributed for all in the eyes of many, but the fondness my eyes receive when they perceive yours, is something which belongs to me and only me.
Love,
Olivia.

2^nd October, 1915.   

Very well, as I read this letter of yours, our mutual understanding consoles me. The sun shines as bright as ever, and the moon glows as well, my work is satisfactory and everything remains calm, yet I must confess that my heart bears a deep engraving of our past. Too deep to be written down on sheets of paper with letters that are but twenty six. Each night as I go back to sleep, my restless mind in spite of myself, brings me back to you, I kiss you, my lips against yours, along with which a thousand more emotions that uncover from our soul take possession over that of mine. As I end this letter, I wonder if you remember our first meet, as we met and loved and loved, we loved each other in our beauty, the passage of time changes quite a bit, and so it did in our case too, for I now love you for not your beauty that one may stop loving in an hour or two but for what is eternal and as precious forever- I love you for your love and your endurance of it. Believe me now as you always did, believe me for what these letters stand for and believe me that one day I’ll be back, back in those arms of yours, to love and love you until all eternity.
Love,
Jonathan.

“He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking”
-Leo Tolstoy,Anna Karenina.