Work Text:
Dear Julia,
I’m writing to you to say
I wanted to let you know
Writing letters isn’t my strong suit.
This might be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
I hope this finds you well.
It probably won’t surprise you to know I haven’t shaken my habit of moving on from places quickly, but I don’t want to move on from you I’ve learned to hold onto people by now.
I don’t have a permanent address, nor do I have a phone, so…
I’m not sure what to do, Julia.
I wanted to stay with you
We could have made such a team.
Would you come with me, if I asked?
Try not to change your address. Or if you do — please at least give me some warning. I’m sure you can manage the way. I just don’t want to lose you. I’ll try to write to you, when I have time.
And I’ll be thinking of you always.
Love,
Wishing you the best,
Carmen
Carmen,
I’ve been drafting this for quite a while, waiting for a chance to respond to you. I could’ve filled a lot of volumes with everything I ought to say to you, but I’ll try to stick to the highlights.
I’m afraid without you in it, my life is rather boring. I struggle to find a single anecdote that’s even a little comparable to your journey. Ever since we parted, everything has felt the same.
I didn’t realize how much you were adding to my life until you left. I know you didn’t leave me. It didn’t even feel like you left me. How could it? You were never with me.
But still, I think I want you to come back to me. Is that an option? If you come back to me, would you stay? Because I think I would like you to. If you want that, that is. Please don’t come to me just for me. Enough of your life has been controlled by others. Unless you want to, don’t come. I’ll survive. I promise. It’s better than you coming just for my sake.
I’m sorry. This was a mistake. You’ll come if you want, and no other reason. Not that you’ll ever read this. I can’t send you a letter like this. I can’t send you a letter at all, how would I even address it?
Please come back. Even if you’re just going to say goodbye, please come back.
Love,
Julia
Writing another letter feels too hard, so she buys a postcard. All she has to do is scribble “Thinking of you!” on it, and slap down a few stamps.
It’s only when it’s fallen into the box that she realizes she forgot to sign her name.
Ah, well. How many postcards from Afghanistan is Julia expecting?
(Besides. Julia probably knows her handwriting by now, right?)
(Of course she does. She has to. She has to have gotten Carmen’s letters. Has to recognize her handwriting by now.)
(She cares, doesn’t she? She doesn’t write back, but Carmen doesn’t exactly have a home address. Hell — she could be writing back, and Carmen would just have no idea. She’s being foolish, worrying about all this. Julia has given Carmen no reason to believe she doesn’t care.)
(Only you don’t prove a negative like that. It just leaves you vulnerable. You cannot assume something is there because you’ve seen no proof it’s not.)
(Love does funny things to logic.)
Dear Julia,
I know it’s been a while since I sent a proper letter. I hope you didn’t miss me. I really want you to have missed me. I’m all out of postcards, so I found a piece of paper.
I’ve been following your work, actually. You’re quite the academic: I hope you’re not pushing yourself too hard. I can’t wait to hear you explain it to me. I’m following along alright, but only imperfectly. First hand experience will only get you so far.
I keep thinking I’ve spotted you in the streets. I haven’t heard from Zach and Ivy, so if you could, check in on them? I worry about them almost as much as you sometimes.
I really hope you’re getting these. International postage can be hard to figure out.
Yours,
Carmen
Dear Julia,
This might be one of my last letters, although it depends on how long it takes to arrive. Do let me know when you receive it — which you can do now! I made an email, included inside the envelope. (I don’t know how often I’ll be able to check it: I don’t spend very much time on computers, funny as that might sound.)
I hope you enjoy a way to respond. I must admit, penning letters to the void is a different experience than expecting there to be a response. I can feel how oddly formal I’ve gotten in this letter alone. Bear with me, as I recalibrate, please.
My travels have a strange character to them lately: lonely. I had thought I was adjusting to traveling alone, but it turns out it evades me. Having a companion makes the world feel more alive, totally in its own way.
I’m afraid to admit it, Julia, but I think I miss you.
Yours, Carmen.
A rap at the door calls Julia to it. She doesn’t consider who might be there, because her hair is still tangled with sleep and her clothing is ratty and faded, and the shock of Carmen’s ever-crimson tailored coat feels as shocking as fresh blood in snow.
“I did write,” Carmen says. “Please don’t look at me like I’ve dropped in unannounced.”
“I’m not accustomed to making plans via letter,” Julia apologizes. “Once I’ve gotten over my shock, I promise I’ll be very pleased.”
“Get over it faster, then. I’ve been traveling a very long time, and I have missed you very much.”
Julia breathes out. It’s Carmen. Why is she hesitating?
She has a slit in her eyebrow now. Julia brings a curious finger to it.
“It would’ve made me too distinct,” she says. “I wanted to give it a shot.”
“You were never big on being discreet.”
Carmen’s cheeks draw in, thoughtful. “There are many ways of being discreet. I didn’t spend all of my time in a trench coat. VILE had already seen my face, but other authorities hadn’t.”
“I like it,” Julia decides. “Suits you. Now, have you considered wearing colors other than red?”
“I’ve thought about it. But red’s my color, Jules. I couldn’t change everything.”
Carmen, always the traveler, has an adventurous palette, and she drags Julia around the city, hunting for a restaurant of interest.
“You know I live here, right? I can give you the authentic experience.”
Carmen’s nose crinkles. “I’ve had the authentic experience. I think I want to be a tourist for a little while.”
She’s no tourist. Even if she’s trying, she exudes the calm, don’t-notice-me effect that makes eyes slip past her.
(Not that Julia can stop looking at her.)
(Maybe there’s a saying in that. The only way to see someone who doesn’t want to be seen is to find them so beautiful, you can’t look away.)
(Julia has always liked works of art.)
Carmen enjoys each and every beat of life. Julia supposes, after a lifetime of fighting, Carmen has more than earned a chance to soak up on living. She lets herself become a part of it, lets Carmen take her on walks, on day trips, on train journeys, no longer trying to maximize her time and efficiency, but simply experiencing.
A new side of Carmen starts to show: perhaps better labeled an old side. Julia can see the girl who fell in love with geography, anthropology, linguistics. Carmen studies people, likes to learn what makes each individual and each whole.
In Dublin, Carmen explains the history of whiskey. “The word comes from Gaelic,” she says, a soft, wondrous look on her face. “Uisce beatha. Water of life.”
They’ve shared alcohol before: wine at meals, the occasional beer (Carmen wanted to know what British pubs were really like, a thought that made Julia snicker), and champagne, once, just to say they’d properly had it.
This feels different. They take their shots together, and Carmen says, “Sláinte,” and when she drinks, Julia thinks she understands.
Together, they are more alive than when they are apart.
“Why me?” It’s a horrible, insecure question, but Julia has to ask. Carmen has seen the world countless times over, but here she is, eating take-out with Julia on a park bench, watching ducks swim in a lake, grinning like this is the most special moment she has ever had.
“You always had faith in me,” Carmen says. “More faith in me than I had, at times.”
Julia can’t keep her surprise off her face. Trusting Carmen was the easy part. Carmen showed her time and time again that she deserved it. The hard part was getting others to see; the hard part was not being able to talk to Carmen. In those days, she had seemed untouchable. She was Devineaux’s white whale, but to Julia, she had been a will-o’-the-wisp. Untouchable, yet still guiding Julia to something.
Carmen’s smile turns from open and joyful to contemplative. “I was raised by thieves, Julia. I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing. But you always thought I was. You always believed I was trying.”
“You never gave evidence you weren’t. I try to assume the best.” Although Carmen can be a cynic (a label she’s certainly earned the right to wear), Julia remains an optimist. If she lets go of that, she’s not sure what’s left.
“It was a leap of faith! I was just a thief, and you still believed I was well-intentioned. I can’t tell you what that means to me — more than you realize.” There’s a desperation in Carmen’s voice that makes Julia want to hold her tightly.
“You weren’t subtle,” she says, in lieu of something too much, too serious, too entire. Carmen is a bird who will fly if she senses too much movement, and Julia doesn’t want to be the one to capture her.
“And yet you’re the only one who figured it out.”
“The world does not have many observant people in it. And many of us are crippled by circumstance.” Something in Julia reaches out to something in Carmen. They have not moved, but something irrevocable has happened.
“I can’t unknow you,” Carmen says.
“Don’t,” Julia says.
Carmen’s hand cups Julia’s cheek and Julia’s lips touch Carmen’s. It is too much to speak. But it is not too much to show.
Carmen leaves without warning.
Julia tries to pretend she isn’t heart-broken. (Julia tries not to wonder if she did this.)
She came back to me once, Julia reminds herself. She might come back again. It isn’t like Carmen to—well.
Carmen has always run off without warning, without saying goodbye. Julia has never been special to her, not in that way. The only difference is that Carmen always finds a way to come back to her. Julia knows how much of Carmen’s life has been dictated to her. Perhaps she comes back because Julia does not make her leave.
Or perhaps this is just romantic thinking, and Carmen is simply doing what she has always done. She does not abandon things easily, but she does not stay with them any easier. Julia had thought more for them, but that does not mean Carmen had. Perhaps she was another exploration, another way for Carmen to catch that fleeting joie de vivre.
She doesn’t think she can fault Carmen for that.
Julia falls for Carmen in that gap. They say absence makes the heart grow stronger, but Julia thinks she’s just become aware of all the gaps that Carmen had come to fill. It’s foolish of her, but Julia has never been good about the straightforward way of doing things.
She fell for Carmen the first time in her absence. She fell for Carmen in watching her across the globe, inferring what kind of woman she must have been. It should not surprise her that after Carmen has left, she finds herself falling again.
Days go by, then weeks. Julia thinks of the email Carmen left her, and types out messages. She asks nothing, implies little. She tells Carmen about her days, about the ducklings that hatch and the darkening of the tree leaves.
Carmen does not respond, but Julia’s loneliness doesn’t grow. If Carmen comes back, Julia will hold her and keep her until she stays. If Carmen doesn’t, Julia’s life will continue unchanged. She never thought of love like this, as something that could rest and not grow weaker. Love, before Carmen, meant a pursuit. Love meant you were dissatisfied without.
After Carmen, love means knowing someone wholly, and still wanting to know more.
Dear Julia,
I’m sorry for leaving the way I did.
I miss you more than anything.
I hope you haven’t moved. Life doesn’t feel the same without you. I’ll check my email, I promise. I don’t know why I can’t let myself love you. I hope you’ve forgiven me for not saying goodbye. I’ve never been good at them.
I need you to know I don’t regret a single thing. Here’s a photo of me, wearing green. I’m trying new things, but I don’t know if I like them. Still, I thought you’d be proud. I’ve made it around the world three times and you are the only place that feels like home. I don’t have Player in my ear these days, telling me what I ought to try, but that doesn’t stop me. I don’t know how to stay in one place.
I’m not good at emotions, Jules, and I’m sorry. You deserve better. But I want you to know that I love you. I was so scared to want you.
Fuck. I think I need to mail this now, or I won’t ever send it.
Yours,
Carmen
Julia grabs Carmen by the shirt when she gets back, kissing her deeply. “You can leave me, if you need to. But you are going to get a cell phone and give me your number and text me at least once a week so I know you’re alive.”
“Didn’t mean to worry you, Jules,” and Carmen is wearing her teasing smile, but it cannot hide the genuine surprise.
“I have worried about you from the moment I first saw you.”
Carmen blinks, her confusion well-masked to most, but Julia isn’t most. How many people in her life have ever worried for her? Has anyone told her to keep safe? To check in when she gets there — not for a reason, but simply to know she’s okay? Has anyone ever held her close, just to be glad she’s there and alive?
Julia holds Carmen’s face in her hands. I love you, she wants to say. “Carmen, I care about you. You know that, right?”
“Sure,” she says, like she’s cracking a joke.
“No, Carmen. I really do.”
Something breaks in Carmen, because she pulls Julia close for the first time, making fists in Julia’s hair. She doesn’t cry, but her breathing is fragile, and it hasn’t quite steadied when she pulls away.
“I’m not getting a phone,” she says. “I’m not going to need one.”
“Why not?” Julia says, hoping the panic stays out of her voice, hoping she is not claiming too much, pushing too far.
“I discovered,” Carmen says, “that traveling means very little without the right company. And Julia, I would so like that company to be you.”