#rosiden

Delivered by hand, rested in his mail box, a hand written letter with a picked flower, wilted in the Los Angeles heat. (Listen: And Just Like That - Abel Korzeniowski)

It is just rising on dawn as I sit down to write this. I know it is the cowards way out, to write when facing you would break my heart, but as I try to think of the words I need to write, I at least comfort myself in knowing that at least the last time you saw me there was a trace of our happiness left. I am sorry Aiden. I know you will look on everything I have ever said and done with disbelief and you have every cause to do so but in truth, everything I felt, everything I said, it was real to me.

I will not delve into it all again, you know the paths that have led us both here. I will offer no excuse, other than you came into my life light a light, a beacon of hope and I held on, selfishly, hoping we might both be saved. It appears I will be the cause of us both drowning. I have to choose him. Will you believe me when I say you are one of the kindest men I have ever known? I hope, despite it all, your nature does not change.

I want so much to plea with you to forgive me but I know that is not fair of me. Just remember the good, hold onto the good. 

Perhaps we were destined to be an aubade, fleeting magic, brilliant and pure. At least, that is how I will think of us.

Be well.

R.

Aiden was well aware that conflict was not Rosie’s strong suite…but there were times when one was meant to swallow their pride, fight their fear and handle things face to face. And she’d failed…she’d disappointed him so utterly and completely that he almost couldn’t breath for a moment. A letter…they had meant so little to her that she had dissolved them without even looking him in the eye, without giving him a chance to hug her goodbye and try to tell her that he didn’t hate her, didn’t villainize her at all. He’d spent careful time, sure that this moment was coming, letting the poison out in advance.

White knuckled grip on the letter faltered, and it rode the air down to the floor, the wilted flower with it. He’d been ready…ready to try so hard to swallow down his pain and hold her, tuck a strands of hair behind her ear and tell her that he didn’t regret it, and that he wished her all the happiness in the world. He’d been prepared to tell her that as he healed he would try to offer her as much in the way of friendship he could…no promises given but he’d try. That offer was off the table now…in that letter…in that letter he’d supposed she’d meant to be ethereal and heartfelt….Rosie hadn’t just ended their love, she’d wiped away any chance of them having any relationship at all.

He threw the letter into the fireplace and the flower followed. Anger washed through him, anger he’d fought down reignited as he wallowed in betrayal. Aiden didn’t remember throwing a punch, but suddenly his forehead was against the wall of the living room and his fist was aching as he glared at the hole he’d made.

Time moved by in strange waves of fast and slow. He grieved in every room of the house, and then he started moving the furniture around. As if he thought the flurry of motion would blow Rosie’s presence out of the house. He wanted to call her up and scream at her…that she was mistaken. An aubade…he’d been led to believe that an aubade was two people leaving each other at dawn because they had to, both of them making the decision in equal measures. This…this was abandonment. She’d made him trust her, had pulled his hopes and dreams and fears out of him, had said she loved him. But what kind of love was so fragile that it was wiped away in the span of three weeks, what kind of love was so easily ended by pen instead of by mouth?

In that moment his anger was so deep, sorrow so brokenly profound, that he hated her. He hated Rosie Winston with every fiber of his being. He would not see her again, would avoid her like the plague on the site. If she thought so little of him that she sought to erase their love through a letter, then he would erase her too. And yet despite that vow…despite the anger…his motions were tender as he put her belongings into a few cardboard boxes and left them in the foyer. Not being able to stand the thought of contacting her himself, he had his assistant relay the details of his upcoming work schedule. She could come to the house at a time of her choosing to collect her things, when he was not home. That was the imperative part.

And just like that they were over.

Just like that he was broken.