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"I'll return soon," she told me, her smile audible in her voice. Then, she tilted her head a little. "You'll wait for me, won't you?"
Stunned at the sight before me, I was, for a moment, at a loss for words. Then, I nodded silently. I hoped that my rigid resolve was clear to her, despite the small gesture.
She nodded back, as if satisfied. Then, she stretched and stood up.
And then she left, without another word.
---
Spring came along soon after. It arrived and moved like a steady stream—impossible to stop yet refreshing. And all things seem to be reborn in spring, a good friend of mine always told me.
Anyhow, I occupied myself with many practical things. Wood carving was something I had taken up just recently. It helped me think, while occupying my hands with something solid. A monotone motion.
And what I carved was for her. And whatever mistakes I made, I knew I'd always hide from her, or show them only to get a laugh out of her. My own troubles on display for entertainment.
Lost in thought, I grew careless. The knife slipped and nicked my thumb. Cursing, I bit my lips with bruising force. I'd hide that nick from her, too, I immediately thought. I wouldn't want to worry her.
---
Summer was as hot as ever. Many complained to me about the scalding temperature, but I had always found it similar to a warm embrace. I never minded it, no. I'd long for it, even if it made me feel lightheaded at times.
My carving had been perfected already, so I moved on to something else. The forest had many things to offer, truly. And so, I took up making bouquets.
A worn-down book I had encountered during the winter of last year informed me of just how many meanings flowers are able to convey. Lovely roses, apologetic hyacinths, pure lilies.
At first, it was strange, but then I grew to love the meanings. Or, well, the concept of sending messages through flowers. Humans loved to leave their mark on everything, it seemed.
Forests became villages, towns, kingdoms. Seas became the playground of pirates and fishermen. Even flowers grew with their own reasons in mind, yet, humans decided to give them their own interpretation of how, what, and why they are there.
My fingers clutched a silly, little clump of amaranth, daffodils, and wormwood. I stared at them.
Sighing, I tossed them away. I had grown careless yet again.
---
Autumn. It wasn't very special to me. It came and went, just a smooth transition into the winter's cold. Leaves changed colour, the wind grew more frigid.
This autumn, I stumbled across an abandoned library. Perhaps it was a study of sorts, actually, given its size. But I digress.
Books on linguistics littered the place. Having nothing else to do while I waited for a certain someone, I read. I simply sat down on one of the old, dusty couches, and read.
At one point, after consuming so much information on the matter, I started theorizing about certain aspects of language myself. Now, these theories hadn't been written down anywhere in the aforementioned books, but I was certain of some of them.
For example, in Latin, the word for "love" is "amor". Now, if you were to think of it as two elements, you'd have "a" and "mor", which could both be analyzed alone.
In Italian, and I thought of it since it originates from Latin itself, "a" is a preposition that means "to", or "until", maybe even "from".
Da me a te, from me to you.
Da ora in poi, from now on.
Da allora ad oggi, from then to today.
Taking the second part, "mor", we could associate it with the Latin word for "to die", which is "mori".
Would Latin insinuate that "love" actually means "until death"? I searched for this theory through the many books at my disposal, yet, none said so.
To love until death. Was that what I found myself doing? Careless—or rather, blinded by care and fondness.
---
Winter was the toughest of all seasons for me. I never liked the cold, and the forest didn't offer me many warm places to hide in. I waited it out, as always, shivering and hearing my teeth chatter.
The white-coated nature was incredibly beautiful, however. That much, I did admit.
I had rambled on and on about made-up etymology for "amor" so much so that I grew delusional at one point. I was an idiot, truly.
"Presumably the basis of this made-up etymology is the fact that the words share a sequence of three letters. But amor comes from the root am- "love" plus the suffix -or, which is a common way to form abstract nouns. It does not contain an element mor that might be compared to mors (and even if it did, that wouldn't get us very far); the only thing shared between am- and mort-, the stem of mors, is the m. There is no relationship between the two words."
That is what the letter said.
I had written to an institute, wanting to contribute with my own theory. However, I was shut down, and ridiculed. Rather, I ridiculed myself. The letter itself had been fully formal and objective.
But I digress.
Sighing, I crumpled the paper and removed it from my sight. I had run around in circles, convincing myself of things that weren't true at all.
Perhaps I was projecting. Loving until death. Forever adoring someone, right up until my very last moment. Ridiculous.
---
Spring came again, as it always did.
My hands wore callouses and scars from my wooden hobby. The forest's flowers diminished in number because of my experiments. The sight of the abandoned library-study-thing left a bitter taste in my mouth.
And the crumpled-up letter lay alone, somewhere in the picture painted by my actions.
She hadn't come back.
But I was foolish to think she would. It wasn't as if she had promised it, sworn it, or anything of the sort.
Taking my mind off of things, I decided to perfect something else. Perhaps, then she'd have more reasons to want to come back, to like me. I wanted to be easy to love. In that case, she wouldn't have to do any hard work.
Just to be there, perhaps, if even.
And so, when I found out that the library had a hidden attic, I explored.
And so, when I found the dusty piano, I sat down.
And so, sitting down, I played.
---
Summer.
I had spent all season in the attic, doing my best to figure out how to work the instrument. How to place my arms, my hands, and my fingers. Where everything went, I didn't know, but I was determined to find out.
Maybe the piano wasn't tuned. I couldn't know.
However, I played. Simple scales, simple chords, simple melodies. I messed around with tempos, too.
My absolute favourite was the waltz. It was almost as if my left hand had been crafted just to play that special 3/4 time. I even composed some waltzes myself, in the end.
If they were dedicated to someone, I wouldn't say. I would just continue to play them until my fingers ached.
---
Autumn, again. Insignificant.
I played.
---
At one point, I found myself lying down on the attic's floor. On my back, I was breathing heavily. I couldn't move my arms without them sending protesting jolts of pain to my body.
I ached, but it was alright. I missed her, I realized.
It hit me all of a sudden, that I was living for somebody else. Now, was that a good thing, or a bad one?
Good that I was alive to begin with? Bad that it was not for myself?
I was no philosopher, just an amateur etymologist. And so, I continued to lay down.
Glancing to the small, dirty attic window, I saw snow outside. Or, well, the colour white.
I missed her.
---
Spring. Rebirth, even if it didn't feel like it.
I was starting to have a routine, at the very least. Monotone as it was.
Stumbling into the library, which was now along the lines of my new home, I searched for sheet music. Naturally, with no teacher nor prior experience, I wouldn't know how to read it. I did, however, know what was up and what was down, Therefore, I'd figure out if a note was higher on the piano or lower. And from there? I'd improvise. I'd manage.
Sheet music, I did not find. On the other hand, I did come across some cookbooks. They were interesting for a while, but didn't keep my interest for long.
Then, I found newspapers. I read them, sure, but I didn't know much about the events referenced. And so, I folded the paper, over and over.
Eventually, I made a shape. It looked an awful lot like a paper heart.
Careless. Careful, rather? Foolish, anyway.
---
Summer. Hot as always. A warm embrace. You get it by now.
One day, while lying on the grass outside of the library, I studied my hands. The callouses were a bit softer now, but still more rigid than the rest of my skin. The scars faded just a bit more since I last checked them out.
Somehow, this made me feel an awful pang in my chest. All of the proof that I had been alive, and busy, was fading.
The kitchen knife that I knew lay in one of those cookbooks inside tempted me. Perhaps I could make a more permanent "decision", one that came with a story. A finger? The whole arm? A ear?
I shook my head, shocked by what thoughts had decided to occupy my mind.
Foolish.
---
I did not even notice autumn arriving. I was busy at the piano, as always.
My compositions became more sound- hold on, a pun? Maybe she'd like that one. Or maybe she'd smack me for cracking bad jokes. However, in both cases, I knew it would make her smile.
A loud crash outside snapped me out of my trance.
My feet rushed down, with a mind of their own. What met me when I got there, however, was a mere cat.
Maybe "mere" was a bad word to use. The animal was just as much as me, maybe more. Would I be mere? Maybe she'd describe me as mere. Was I just as much as her?
"Meow," the cat said, or, well, meowed? All those books on languages, and I still didn't know how to express myself. Sad.
At that point, I didn't even know what my own voice sounded like. I hadn't used it in so long.
The cat protested my lack of response with another meow, calling to me, craving attention. Perhaps the two of us were more similar than I had initially thought.
"Hello," I said, my voice weak. It seemed almost as if the cat smiled in response. Then, it brushed itself along my knees.
I didn't know how to treat people, or, well, living things, in this case. Quickly, the cat made me realize that I lacked social skills. Maybe that's why she left to begin with.
"You," I started. The cat's ears perked up in response. "You are very small."
The cat purred. It didn't seem to mind my awkwardness.
And so, I crouched down. "You're cute," I told it, smiling for the first time in forever.
Petting the cat, I simply smiled.
---
Winter was cold. It always was.
This time, however, I had a small companion to keep warm. Rather, she insisted I keep her warm. If I ever did dare focus on something other than her for a long time, I'd find her yowling and meowing loudly in protest.
And, yes, I found out that the cat was a "she".
My piano sessions had an avid listener, my reading time was often interrupted by the furry creature, and she even played around with the wooden figurines I had decorated the library with. Knocking them off of shelves was her favourite activity, it seemed.
And so, not only did I make more, but I also started placing them on more accessible shelves for her, lower down.
She seemed happy. I was happy for her.
And when I'd go to sleep, she'd keep my chest warm.
I decided to name her Calor. Warmth, in Latin.
---
Spring.
Calor and I were on an impromptu picnic outside of the library. I called it "impromptu" because I liked misusing French words.
I'm joking. It was impromptu because I had not planned a picnic, but the cat insisted on bringing various forest fruits onto my lap. Offerings.
Maybe she had finally realized that the dead bugs and rodents she brought me disgusted me, but I never did say it out loud.
And so, with Calor purring on my thigh as I ate berries, I felt content. Not happy, per se, but content.
That's when I saw her.
Quickly, I grabbed the cat and left. Rushing as I was, the fruits were forgotten on the grass where Calor and I had sat.
---
Summer.
I couldn't face her. I hid in the attic.
The room got awfully humid and almost suffocating during the summer, but I did not care. I stayed there, and Calor kept me company.
She sunbathed, purred, and remained by my side through thick and thin.
At one point, I heard footsteps outside, too. Those made my heartbeat stutter, before doubling in pace. I hadn't done anything wrong, but it felt as if I was a misbehaving child hiding from a stern parent. No clue why.
It was as hot as ever.
---
Autumn couldn't pass more slowly. I was too scared to play the piano. The sound could attract unwanted company.
Unwanted? No, maybe I just wasn't sure what to say to her. After all this time, I forgot how our interactions usually went. What if it was like riding a bike? I'd get back into the rhythm of it quickly?
I couldn't know. I didn't know how to ride a bike and had never learned.
Calor sometimes explored downstairs, but that area was, in my mind, off limits.
I wanted to see her, but I also didn't. I was angry, but I wasn't.
---
Winter.
I thought she'd give up quickly, just as quickly as she had decided to leave me in the first place. However, that was not the case. Instead, she kept wandering the library. I heard her.
What I also did hear, at one point, was her calling out to me. My name, I think, was what she said, although the thick walls made the sound unclear and uncertain.
Calor warmed my chest, and she seemed concerned as to why my heart was beating so fast. I felt my cheeks flush in shame in front of the cat.
She called my name again, I think.
---
Spring. I wandered down.
That's when I saw her properly for the first time in so, so long.
And she saw me, too. Her head snapped towards my descending figure on the stairs.
I felt the callouses on my fingers, the scars on my arms, the steady 3/4 time of a waltz, the pseudo-etymology I'd given words, and the fur of Calor brushing against my ankle.
"Aren't you happy to see me?" she asked, a tentative smile playing on her lips.
I looked at her blankly. Then, I furrowed my brows. However, I remained silent.
Then, she noticed Calor's presence. "It seems you found a little companion," she said, her smile audible in her voice.
"She found me, rather," I said, simply.
She took a couple steps towards us, and Calor raised her haunches. I widened my eyes. She was by no means an aggressive cat. Energetic sometimes, sure, but never like so.
"What do you want from me?" I asked.
Stunned, she was finally the speechless one out of the two of us. "I wanted to talk," she confessed. "To tell you all about the things I've seen. A-and for you to tell me about what you have done in my-"
"In your absence," I finished for her.
A beat of silence. And then two. Three, and it'd be close to the beat of a waltz.
A tango would suit us better, I thought to myself right then and there.
I sighed, and the world seemed to sit still. Her eyes widened in fear of rejection. Since when did our roles reverse like this?
"Come on," I said, a small smile pulling at my lips. At that, she beamed. "Let's sit down."
Before I could move to follow suit, however, she rushed towards me and pulled me into an embrace.
"I missed you," she said. And it didn't affect me as much as I thought it would have. "Did you miss me, too?"
"I did, at times," I confessed. "And I found you in everything I did."
"You have me in the flesh, now," she remarked cheekily.
Finally, I smiled. "I suppose I do," I said.
I loved her. Perhaps I would until death. Perhaps not.
I did, however, find myself living for myself rather than for her.
Amor.