5. The Weight of the Unwritten
The Weight of the Unwritten
I n my room, pale beams of light slip through a narrow chink in the heavy-drawn curtains.
The parchment between my fingers feels heavier than it should, as though it bears the weight of these past three years.
Each word tethers me to the promise of a future I’ve scarcely allowed myself to imagine.
The inked curves seem to echo the ache in my chest—a longing so sharp it threatens to unmoor me entirely.
I rise, pacing restlessly, the letter trembling slightly in my grip. I read the last part of the letter again; the words sticking in my mind like an unshakable echo.
You have reasons for the silence you’ve kept, that I may not understand, but do come home. It has been an eternity since we last saw you, and we feel your absence keenly.
Safe travels,
Callan
A warmth spreads through me as I read those final words. Yearning is no longer a distant dream, but a reality. With each word, the tension in my shoulders loosens, replaced by something far more profound—a stirring hope that perhaps this distance kept has not been in vain.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, the letter still in hand, and fall back against the covers. The scent of wax and faint lavender lingers in the air. Closing my eyes, I let the weight of the moment settle over me.
“Why are you holding that like it might vanish?” Bran’s voice cuts through the stillness, making me jolt slightly.
My fingers instinctively tighten around the letter as I glance toward the door.
He stands there, leaning casually against the frame, a smug grin plastered across his face, clearly pleased with himself for catching me off guard.
“I’ll bet it’s important,” he continues, crossing his arms. “Judging by the death grip, maybe even life-changing?”
I roll my eyes and turn my gaze back to the ceiling. “Stop actin’ as if you didnae fumble through my things to read it.”
The grin in his voice is unashamed. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t read all of it—just most.”
“Bloody insufferable American,” I mutter, shaking my head. His nosiness and devil-may-care bravado burrow under my skin like a thorn. Yet for all his pestering, there’s a strange comfort in his presence. He’s maddening, yes, but grounding in a way I can’t quite explain.
Bran barks a laugh. “What can I say? It’s an American specialty—we take what we want and figure out the rest later.”
“Aye, you said it,” I reply dryly.
“Damn, Mac, you’re not supposed to agree.”
I cast him a sidelong glance. “I willnae lie to yer face, Mums. You deserve the truth. ”
Bran strides into the room and flops onto the bed beside me. His hazel eyes glint with mischief as he props himself up on one elbow. “So, what’s got you in a twist? Excited to see someone in par-ti-cu-lar ?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
“The day’s new, Bran. Let’s not feck it up with yer shite.”
“Oh, come now.” He flashes an exaggerated grin.
“Let’s not pretend your dashing good looks and charm didn’t catch the eye of many back home.
Give me a hint of something to work with.
It’s been near impossible to get through that stone wall of yours.
You’re practically crawling out of your own skin to haul it out of here.
This is the most alive I’ve seen you since you ate leite creme for the first time. ”
Despite myself, I chuckle. “It’s a damned delightful treat, you know that.” I smirk, leaning back. “In truth, I’m just relieved to be rid of you.”
I stand, hoping to end the conversation and busy myself with the few remaining tasks before we leave.
“Sure you are,” he drawls, his tone teasing but softer now.
My movements are deliberate, but Bran, ever persistent, steps closer, matching my stance as if to challenge my attempt to disengage.
“ I’m willing to bet there’s someone back home you’ve been dreaming about.”
I stiffen, keeping my voice even. “There’s not a single soul I see that way.”
“That’s a load of bunk. Not even that pretty little thing you yammer on about?
” His words strike a chord, and my chest tightens.
Unease flickers to life, kindling into something harder to ignore.
I glance away, unwilling to name her even in my mind.
She’s a presence I can’t shake, a thought that lingers too long and leaves me restless.
“I’ve not called anyone pretty around you—hardly call it yammerin’ —lest I be met with an onslaught of questions,” I shoot back, unable to contain the grunt of annoyance that passes through my clenched teeth.
“Oh, but you have.” He raises a single finger. “It’s the way your eyes sparkle when you talk about home. As if you’re a babe at Christmastime. Starry-eyed and giddy.”
Before I can interject, he raises a second finger. “And the soft smile when you say her name.”
My jaw clenches as a third finger joins the first two. “Or how many of the stories I pull from you circle back to her. You don’t think I notice, but I do.”
I open my mouth to retort, but he silences me with a fourth finger, grinning wider now. “Or maybe it’s the fact that you’ve not let a woman so much as touch your—”
“All right!” I snap, swatting him in the stomach. “Shut yer trap.”
“Ouch, you bastard.” The movement momentarily stops his speech, but it’s quickly followed by an obnoxious laugh. “Touchy subject? Just another sign, Mac.”
I glare at him, but it only feeds his smugness.
“And anyway,” he continues, utterly undeterred, “what else is there to talk about now that our grand, illustrious assignment is over? Aside from the fucking and drinking I do to keep myself occupied, I have to keep conversation creative to keep from going mad. And”—he claps a hand to his chest, his grin widening—“you’re stuck with me until you dump me on my dearest popsies’ doorstep, and I plan to squeeze as much information out of you as I can. ”
I groan. “Gods help me.”
“Don’t call to them. You brought this on yourself with all the mysteriousness,” Bran quips, winking. “Now, tell me more—her hair, her smile, the way she—”
“Dinnae make me hit you again.” I curse under my breath and turn back to the task at hand. Gathering what few belongings I have, stuffing them into my satchel. I pause as I note the last remaining object. The last letter she’d written me, with the pressed purple primrose still wrapped inside.
It had found its way in the back of the armoire, almost forgotten.
I wish its delicate scent could still be found, but it’d been perfectly preserved to hold shape, not smell.
The effort it had taken to send this sent a tinge of guilt to my stomach, but an action that I thought about often.
It’s brought me comfort in my darkest of days.
I fold the letter once more, tucking it into its designated box amidst the others.
“It’s not so with her. Not in that way.” The words leave my mouth too quickly, and I can’t help but feel the lie curling around them. “When I stayed with the Sinclairs, she was just… kind, is all.”
Bran doesn’t interrupt, but I can feel his scrutiny. “She’ll take a shine to some bonnie suitor capable of givin’ her the moon and stars.” My voice tightens as I wrestle with the ache in my chest, forcing it down like bile. “Not some workin’-class scut like me.”
I force a smirk, though it feels like a knife is twisting in my gut as I openly spew falsities. “She’s far too delicate to endure me. I’m far too rough and rugged.”
Bran laughs. “In this fairytale version of her so-called future,” he adds, “he’ll be a fair-haired, soft-handed lad, who smells of lavender and fancies poetry? Definitely not the red-blooded stag you’ll be in between the sheets? ”
His cheek earns him a half-smile despite me. “Red-blooded stag? Is that how you see me?”
“Aye,” he says, wagging his eyebrows. “You and me both. Dark hair, dark eyes, sun-kissed skin, toned bodies marked by our manual toil. Women dream of us while their soft-handed lads flop on top of them, carelessly.”
I let out a small laugh, masking the way his words unearth something raw inside me. “Ye’re hopeless.”
“And you weave tall tales,” he shoots back, smirking. “But I’ll let you keep secrets—for now.”
I’m mightily relieved he doesn’t press further and hasn’t delved too deeply into the unsaid truths that linger. I’m even more grateful he can’t see the true turmoil etched on my face with my back to him once more.
The return of the pain churns in my gut every time I picture another man’s hands resting upon the curves of her body, holding her in ways I can’t allow myself to imagine.
The thought of another man giving her his name, binding her to a life where his touch becomes her solace and his voice her comfort, is a weight I can scarcely endure.
To think of him holding her in the quiet hours of the night, when she dreams and belongs most wholly to herself, cuts deeper than I dare admit.
The ache intensifies like a blade twisting in my chest when I imagine the sounds she’ll make under his touch, her voice breaking with a softness meant for him as he draws out her pleasure.
The image of her carrying his child instead of mine sears itself into my mind, a torment that leaves me gasping for control.
It’s all a bitter draught to swallow, but a cruel torment I’d endure a thousand times over, just to bask in the light that surrounds me when she is near.
I can scarcely remember when the simple affection of our friendship shifted. When her laughter stopped being something I merely enjoyed and became something I longed for. When her absence felt like a hollow ache.
When I left Scotland, she was but sixteen—a vision of innocence and youth that should remain unchanged in my memory.
But it hasn’t. Not even close. It’s as though she’s grown in my mind, shaped by every letter, every word, every quiet moment I’ve spent imagining her.
And that, I think, is the cruellest twist of all.