Chapter Text
Dear Evelyn,
I’m starting to think that maybe I’m dying. Little by little. Things like forgotten memories and paper cuts. The steps I leave behind. The words I write and say. If I’m writing this to you right now, is that me dying? Do I die with everything I do?
Nevertheless, I miss you. Thinking of you allows me to thrive. There are days where it seems that it was better if you stayed.
Best,
Abida
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Dear Abida,
Every word you write to me isn’t dying. Every word I write to you isn’t dying. Dying is a halt, a stop. You live as you move your fingers across the page. I miss you too. I miss our talks. These letters take a while to send. I wonder if you feel the same as you did while you wrote that, or if you completely disagree now. You have a tendency to do things like that. The sun is slowly setting earlier now. I miss watching the sunset as you recorded what we said. Do you still have them? Send me one, any one. Even a transcript will do, even though I miss your voice. I think of you often.
Sending my dreams and thoughts,
Evelyn
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(The recording starts)
Abida - I think it’s recording now.
Evelyn - That took a while.
(Abida scoffs, and walks farther from the recording device.)
E - Today is Thursday, sometime in September. I couldn’t remember the exact date if I tried. I completely forgot today was Thursday-
A - Until I walked in, that is.
(Abida comes back to the device)
E - I don’t think you would’ve come otherwise.
A - That’s not true, I came on Monday with that journal I found.
E - I didn’t see you.
A - Why would I come in? Anyways, what’s your quote of the week?
E - Give me a sec.
(Evelyn walks away, and comes back with heavier footfalls.)
E - Do you have a specific topic in mind, or can I choose?
A - Respectfully, I don’t care.
E - Of course, my love. I’ll choose then. The quote of the week is “Poets are not born in a country. Poets are born in childhood.” by Ilya Kaminsky. What do you think?
A - I think they’re right. Poets, artists, musicians, any one who has some type of artistic blood wasn’t born with it, right? It’s their memories that give them whatever it is that makes them artistic.
E - Yeah, I guess. Should I get our things before the sun sets or should I wait until after?
A - Get it now. I’ll talk to whoever’s listening while you’re gone.
(We hear a grunt as Evelyn gets up and walks out. Abida takes a deep breath.)
A - Honestly, I don’t know what I should say. I’m in Evelyn’s apartment, wearing a large blazer I found near my house. I don’t think it’s my home yet, though.
(She takes another deep breath, and pauses.)
A - I’m wearing a white blouse underneath, and some pants. Wearing formal clothes makes me feel more put-together. Evelyn didn’t change at all, but she’s been working here. I haven’t seen her at campus yet this week.
(Abida hesitates, and moves.)
A - God, I don’t know what I should say and what I shouldn’t. You could be a by-stander, or a historian looking from afar. Or you could be someone dangerous. Or you could be me, twenty years older. Or Evelyn in some far away land. I truly don’t know. It doesn’t matter. If you need to know something, you’ll know it. Right? It doesn’t really matter.
(She laughs quietly.)
A - I really liked the quote Evelyn brought up earlier. I think anyone can be a poet. I’ve tried poetry. I know for a fact she has. I enjoy reading it, but maybe even though I could be a poet, the way I was born into my childhood didn’t mold me into it.
(Two knocks come from the door, and Abida gets up slowly to open it. The voices seem fainter.)
E - What did you order? It smells incredibly spicy.
A - I think you need to get used to spice, it’s not going to be that bad.
E - Are you sure?
(Some type of shuffling is heard as the voices get louder.)
A - Should I turn it off? Today’s conversation wasn’t that long, but I rather not record myself eating to be honest.
E - Go for it. That has been our conversation for this week. Sweet dreams.
(The recording ends.)