A/N: I wish I could put in some more 'umph' into this drabble. But I'm not currently in love, thank goodness. (*doesn't go there*) Sorry if this disappoints
There's that invisible wall, again, my love.
I could feel it, quite explicably there the moment when we rushed to each other like in one of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels, meaningfully and not caring about bare ankles. No matter how happy I was then, I could feel it. A wall.
And now, as this early morning coach rumbles down this crumbling forest road, I can't help but think of that letter I held for a second, that soft paper slipping through my fingers as I pushed it back in your coat pocket. It was something I had to hide from you, my love, as you stood in front of me, all chestnut hair and glittering blue eyes and nearly mine. It was something I had to hide in my face.
But you saw that worried look, my own boring, earth-brown eyes obviously not concealing the truth as well as I hoped.
That invisible wall is growing wider, my dear. I can feel it pushing you away from me on the carriage seat, every moment I remember the words your mother scratched elegantly onto paper;
Dear Tom, how timely was the arrival of the money you sent.
I'll bet she's a lady, your mother. I'll bet she's kindly, witty and funny, just like you. It's such a shame I'll never meet her.
Dear God, I'm going to miss you, my love. Because I can't marry you. Your family – God, your family – they could starve, for all I know. I couldn't be responsible for that! Surely you'll see, that, when I tell you.
And now we're sitting in this inn. It's a nice place, it gives me ideas, even as I contemplate what to tell you without breaking our hearts.
But they are crushed when I finally find the words, and you grab my hand. I feel like you will never let me go, I can see it in your eyes. Desperate eyes. Did you even know what we were doing?
And I pull away. Just like that; an invisible wall driven between us. Cold, wet brick, sliding through my hand as I leave you at the table.
"Typical bloody runaway." I hear the coachman mutter as I ask for my suitcase to catch the next coach home.
Runaway. It's funny how I never thought of it that way. Typical, bloody writer. Full of romance and metaphors and too many adjectives. Perhaps I'm only suited to writing about love, if this is what it does to me.
And, as the coach pulls away from the inn, your face appears at the window, and I can't watch you for long enough.
I hate everything for just a moment, I hate this horse with the bandy leg that's making this coach rock, I hate my mother, Cassandra and bonnets. I nearly hate you for a second, darling, sweet Tom. Then I realise what I'm thinking and promptly shush. For you would never love me if I hated the world, would you?
A/N: Angst, angst, angst! I wonder if Jane Austen had dark moments?
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