Haven't I always been an honest person? I write asking you to be a critical judge of character, Zinnia, because I am uncertain whether or not I can be any longer. Even as I write this, my heart is making such a thundering in my chest, so fearful that it might be caught full of dishonesty just to pose this question to you. That is, I believe, what has gotten me into more trouble than the alternative, that I might be a dealer in untruths more so than one whose tongue cannot help but utter a truth once it knows.

If this is a confusing letter so far, please offer some patience to a heart that troubled by the same. Some days I know not which direction is up, wherever it used to point is no longer there. Or if it is, such direction now seems dull or boring without the presence my heart has come to rely upon. You may know it well by now, my honesty has had a difficult time keeping the truth from you, but it is only you and few others in whom I have entrusted that truth.

I scarcely trust myself on those days. All my life, I have been told what kind of a lady is desirable. Certainly not one unseemly, with dirt all over her, acting improperly with anyone whose fancy she might find suitable. That would leave her bereft of prospects, or carted off to the countryside in a secret elopement. Zinnia, my heart has always stayed true in its fondness for you, no matter what anyone, any mother or sister of mine, might say unkindly in your direction. That is the confidence in which I ask you, if you could spend your last year doing something entirely different, would you?

On those days I've mentioned, I ask the same question of myself. The answer is never quite satisfying to me, and I am uncertain whether that is because I am being dishonest to myself or if my life has been filled with dishonesty that has been taught to me as the truth.

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I’ve read your letter twice now, although I’m not sure what you’re looking for in terms of an answer. You ask if you’ve been honest, if you are honest, and I find myself biting my tongue not to ask in return: does it matter if you are, when the world prefers us better when we lie? They do. Women are meant to smile sweetly and be innocent. We are meant to nod at the expectations and call it a choice.

You’ve always been honest with me, I think. Perhaps not always with yourself, although deep down you always knew you were lying about something. Do I lie to myself? Yes.

I wake up beside a man who has never hurt me and loves his daughter very much, and I tell myself one day we may be in love. That would make this whole situation better, wouldn’t it? But you asked me a different question – if I could spend my last year doing something entirely differently, would I?

The truth in short, is no.

Because I love Emery with everything I have, and doing one little thing differently would result in losing her. No matter what else I might have given up, no matter who I used to be or what parts of myself I may have lost, I would still make the same decision again and again. She is mine. I am afraid I did choose to do something differently, part of me would always know that I was missing something. Missing someone.

And that, my dear, is a truth I can live with.

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It seems, perhaps, that we are both stymied by the purpose of my letter. I believe that is the best word for it, for I discover myself, all too often, hesitating at the crossroads of a choice for no good reason. If there was a good reason, as one might suppose there always is, I wouldn't have so much trouble making the right choice, would I?

And as I write this, I can genuinely tell you that I am being honest about that much.

Would that I could be otherwise. You call me honest with you, and yet not always with myself. I have to wonder, honwever, if this letter is not proof that statement is wrong, or at least proof that I am better at deception than ever given credit for. I believe that when I am with you, I am honest about the things we talk about, though at times we scarcely talk at all. Indeed, we might call upon each other and say nothing of consequence, then return home to write out our truest of truths to the other; how is that not dishonesty?

And what if I take it as truth, that I am honest. Why, then, can I scarcely bring myself to write the words of those days I mentioned before? Would it make them real, would it reveal my true feelings, to write them down in a letter? Perhaps that is the part of my dishonesty you have discovered here, if you did not know of it all along. In which case, the only way I can remain true to my honesty to you is to write out the words and hope the truth does not shock me, or you when you read it.

There is more to him that I enjoy than mere friendship can satisfy.

Seeing that there in ink is starting to scare me, Zinnia, and it begs me to finish this letter so I no longer have to see it myself. Of the second question I asked you, your answer is the one I knew would come. I think I knew even before I asked, and yet I had to ask or leave myself stymied. And now, faced with a choice for which I believe I have good reason, I can only hope that this reason is something borne of honesty and not the alternative for which I have an unforeseen talent.


P.S. Please destroy this letter once you have read it twice, it scares me too much to have it found.

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You should take comfort in knowing that your letter doesn’t shock me. If anything, I am proud of you to write such sentences. It takes courage, but I know you have a lot of that.

I wonder if we have all, at some point, mistaken silence for deceit. You say we scarcely talk of consequence when we see each other, and yet I think what we do say, even if that doesn’t involve actually saying anything. Like when you lift your brow just so, or when I smile and you understand what I am saying without having said anything at all. What we say is comfort. What we write is clarity. And perhaps we need both. One to keep us tethered, the other to help us fly.

“There is more to him that I enjoy than mere friendship can satisfy.”

There. I’ve written it too, copied your words onto my own page. Does it still frighten you, seeing them now from someone else’s pen?

I will let you in on a little secret: I was once in love with a friend, and while he may have returned those feelings, we were from different worlds that would have never seen us together. But I do know this from feeling something similar to what you might be feeling now: you are not wicked for wanting more than friendship. You are not dishonest for struggling to name that want. You are young still, figuring out the world. Yourself. And you are not alone in being afraid of what it means.

So take your time. Ask your questions. But when you are ready, say the thing you most fear. Say it out loud, not just on paper. It doesn’t have to be to him, not unless you want to.

I promise, you will survive the truth of it.

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