"you know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams."
- dr seuss

I FELT SOMETHING that I'd never felt before when I was with Jake Warrens. A pang of freedom, the taste lengthy and sweet—taunting and daring. It lured me, led my lips to push intensely upon his, to mesmerise the pattern of his lips: each crinkle, each area of plush, which was followed by the rough and rugged force of some peculiar desire that I had not been previously acquainted to. Not that I had known this feeling before, of course: it was new, foreign on my tongue and strange in my body. I'd never kissed anyone before. I had never felt such a feeling.

I liked it.

Very much.

I only assumed he'd felt the same. A rush of intensity seized his being, his palm, which rested delicately upon my waist, become rough in his touch: he grappled with my skirts, as though some inhuman emotion had seized him momentarily; and with that, my hands tangled themselves in his hair, the buzzed strands of a light brown tickling my dried palms. In the moonlight, scandalous and hidden by the secrets of the night, we danced: we shared a lovers kiss and smiled warmly. And for once, I felt free. Completely, and utterly, free. There were no chains holding me, no weight of Mother, of the worried pang for Mollie, of the isolation I had been so well acquainted to. There was nothing but relief: the sagging of my shoulders as I released a breath I had not known I held.

"Jake Warrens," I breathed upon his lips, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. It was slight, only lasting a second, but he'd caught it, and with it blossomed a smile that was wide and fuelled by some unknown elation. His smile: what a sight it was.

"Amandine Lorette." He replied, his grip upon my skirts loosening. It seemed that some awareness of his actions had seized his body: his cheeks flushed red, the blood overwhelming them as heat rushed upon his face. The scar, in the moonlight, seemed so intricate, as though it were a painted mural of his pain, of his struggle and mourning for normalcy. Yet it still remained ethereal, breathtaking as the moon showered love upon it, bringing light to his hazel eye, and warming the eye that was left a blur.

Although I wished to not part from him, I knew that I would have to. The night had only begun, the moon would only rise and the sky would only blacken. Stars would shine, giggling at us—two lovers, secluded and shrined by the moonlight, secretive and child-like. And whilst I did not mind it, I craved sleep: my eyes were slow to shut, my weight dawned upon my being, as though I were being dragged down by gravity's forceful tug. It bore on my knees, which were either heavy with love or fatigue: I did not know, for the two emotions felt so strangely similar. Perhaps it was Jake's presence, his warmth engulfing me wholly, filling my blood with some unknown drug. I did not know, and apart of me did not care.

"My heart, my Amandine," he began, some weariness in his tone. He looked down upon me, and whilst the traces of his smile were still on his face, the overwhelming concern for my well-being seemed to trump it in battle. "We should get you to your chambers, no?" He cocked his head as though he were a clueless puppy. It was utterly adorable.

"But I am not tired?" Though more of a question than a statement, I was seized with the giddiness of first love. The stoic, guarded ways of myself had fallen: I swooned, I swayed and I smiled. And he, charming as ever, smiled. Charming, but not deceiving—not advantageous. "I feel more awake than I've ever felt." And it was true as it was false: my eyes widened with a newfound emotion, one in which I could not name from my tongue, yet my body was heavy with sleep. Eyes of my own, deep and ceaseless, with flecks of the sun engraved within them, stared at him in the moonlight, admiring and dreaming.

Except this was no dream.

No dream could beat this.

But he only chuckled, hands slowly intertwining with my own. Calloused and rough against skin that was once weary, but now soft. The juxtaposing sizes of our hands mingled, morphing into an art piece of its own; I stared in admiration of it: of him, and everything about that night.

I still do, as I sit and write this all down.

"Are you sure you're not tired?" He laughed, hazel eye gleaming in the light of the moon. Even though there was an ease in his eyes, concern laced his voice: every stumble I made, every misguided step, he tensed—arms braced at the ready, on guard to catch. But I did not need him to catch me: I regained my footing and flashed him a smile—not secluded and shy, but wild and giddy—and he flashed me one back. "You seem it—maybe we should get you to your chambers, Amandine."

"I do not feel tired."

"Sometimes we don't feel as we act."

A sly remark, but I noticed the shadow cast within his voice. It was bigger than he let one, his eye distant, the other always lost in a constant haze of war and blood and trenches. A bigger picture surrounded us, even in this night—even as we were lost in a lovers dance: two souls, who somehow managed to overcome fear. But not all the fear had been overcome: the brace in his steps, the constant tense of his shoulders, clipped movement of his jaw, impulsive desire that sprung from thin air and a want to treasure the time. There was something wrong, I could feel it.

But he would not tell.

"What is wrong?" I asked, and suddenly the giddiness of first love had fleeted my body, much like the cold that I once loved. It striped me bare, leaving only my stubborn mind to control me, and not my hopeless heart. And it left in such fright that even I felt fear: some strange concoction of enmity, of weariness and sorrow. It were as though some impending doom had washed over us in that moment: the moonlight hid, the stars stopped their childish gossip. The wind did not send shivers down my spine as it once did. "What is the matter? Did news come?"

He met my eyes. I pleaded with him not to lie. Do not lie, I said. Perhaps I was not convincing enough. "No, there is nothing the matter. What made you feel that way?" Cocking his head innocently, as he always did—but he was not innocent of lies, or bloodshed. But I had forgiven him of that, hadn't I?

Maybe I hadn't, for there was a slight bitter biting in my tongue. It punctured at my throat, and scraped at my skin with vengeance: the curiosity of my mind was overwhelming, and the perplexity of my heart was agonising. I wanted to know—my mind would not rest until it did. But I looked at his face—at the skin upon his hands, grazed and scarred, and at the staining of his clothes, the red still faint upon them. Perhaps tonight would not be the right time to ask.

Perhaps tomorrow.

"You know what I would love, Amandine?" Fingers curling mine, he raised them to brush his lip. The shadows on his face had grown, but the light was still there: soft and patient, waiting for him to shift so more could be seen in it.

"What would you love, Jake Warrens?" And when his name left my lips, a smile graced his face: warm and childish, a newborn innocence, a giddiness of love and joy. It made my heart happy. My heart, but not my mind. Nonetheless, I would not provoke him—I swore that to myself.

I did not want to ruin such a night like this.

"Remember many moons ago, before I left," his eyes caught my own, his head cocked, lips slightly parted, "you'd once taught me how to write." My heart fluttered. I'd almost forgotten such an event. His note still sat next to my bed, awaiting the day for it to be framed.

"Yes, that is correct." I knew what he was to ask, as did my smile. It stretched upon my skin, which was so familiar with the stoic expression of emptiness that it hurt. But the hurt was welcome. For Jake Warrens, anything was welcome.

"Teach me again, Amandine Lorette."

Heart, beating. Time, skipping. Smiles, growing. Moonlight cast itself upon our hands, the stars twinkling in approval. Winters breeze swept the empty halls, his heat engulfing me, as though to protect me from the cold. As though to not loose me again.

The smile still stayed on my face.

"Yes." I said, tight with euphoria, bright with joy. "Yes, and yes and yes again." And he hugged me, large arms wrapped around my frame, fingers getting clumsily tangled in my coiled hair. He hugged me, and suddenly all that bitterness went away.

Yes and yes and yes again.

Give him as many yes's as possible, so that the time he has left may be filled with joy.

~

If he were anyone else, I would have given up on them a long time ago. His formations of the letter o still resembled a squiggle, his hands abnormally large whilst clasping the pencil. Sheets were discarded upon the table in which we wrote upon, a clear contrast in one another's handwriting being evident. It were as though he were a child, and I his teacher, for his face was laced with sweat, but his eyes keen with determination. Admirable it was, yet it brought sorrow about me: here he was, in the age of his twenties, and he was just learning such things.

"Better. . .now?" He questioned, hands trembling from his secure grip on the pencil.

I examined closely. He seemed to be attempting to spell something just from thinking of the word alone: there was a line, and another one, his rendition of an o and the rest was hard to decipher. However, his attempt brought a smile to tug at my lips. "It is nice to see you try."

He clicked at his tongue. "So not better, then."

"Practice makes perfect."

"Yes." He agreed, nodding his head. Beside me, even as we were seated with our backs against the wood of our chairs, he still towered over me. Poised and straight, hands nestled timidly on his knees, eyes darting across the room as though he were prey; and it is ironic, the thought, for he was such a ginormous man in stature, with a bulky figure and strong jaw. He was the last resort, as they liked to proclaim. Their saviour, and yet still their monster. He was anything but prey. "But maybe you could help me write what I would like to."

Eyebrows furrowed, I let curiosity seize me. "What do you mean?"

He shuffled his body to face my own, legs crossed, eyes eager—yet still warm and affectionate. I do not think that would ever leave him. "You could help me form the letter I wish to write. I. . ." He paused, releasing a daft chuckle. "It is silly, never mind."

"No, no—tell me." Let his voice fill the rooms, let his affection show. It was sweet—as were his lips and hands upon my waist. I would never want him to let go. But, eventually, he would have to; so his words here would not be deemed silly, but beautiful. Every word that tumbled from his lips, each more precious than the last.

Who knew how many words he had left.

"Are you sure?" And although there was some weariness about his words, the smile that graced his face was answer enough: yes, and yes and yes again. I nodded, and he continued. "Well, I would say the word, and you would guide my hand to form the letters. I would practice them whilst you are gone, and show you my progress." He let out a sheepish smile, hands fiddling in nervousness.

"What is the word that you want to write?"

"Words, actually."

I raised my brow. "Go on, then."

"I love you."

And my heart stopped, as did time and the Earth and all that walked upon it. As did the breeze, the stars' hushed whispers and the crackle of fire upon the hearth. As did my face, which was usually quick to react: it was slow this time, the overwhelming shock paralysing me in my place. My heart beat faster, the vibrations thrumming through my body. Dots laced my vision, my breathing escalated—but there was no fear in me. No fear, no worry, no enmity. There was nothing but happiness, some pure elation rooted deep within, blossoming from months of care and tenderness.

Yes, and yes and yes again.

I did not need to say anything. My hand held his own, calloused knuckles grazing upon dried palms, as I held out a used sheet of paper and guided his hand. Each muscle softened under my touch, his eyes gazing into me with utter bewilderment. And with each letter we wrote together, the more I turned toward him.

Until it was all written out.

I love you, it read.

Yes, and yes and yes again.

~

Many years later, she would write this down. Her eyes would gaze upon the wall, and some feeling would wash over her. It was not sadness, nor sorrow, but an unconditional love.

The piece of paper, crinkled and torn: I love you.