a letter to edgeworth
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December 28, 2017
My dear Edgeworth,
In the years that we have known and un-known and re-known each other, you had never answered a letter I sent you. I held out hope that one day you will – but now, beyond a reasonable doubt, you never will.
I don’t blame you for it. We were children, and then we were adults, and between “childhood” and “adulthood”, there was no space for anyone to really cultivate “friendship” – least of all for a man like you, who valued his pride and honor more than his own life. Your silence was your choice, and whether or not I understood it, I respected it. I respected and admired you deeply; I wonder if you were ever aware of that.
On this day one year ago, I felt like I had finally met you again for the first time – the real you, not the Prosecutor Edgeworth you showed to the world – when I learned the full truth of why you left. And I felt like I was going to lose you right afterwards. I was so angry, you know? Not at you, but at life. It hurt me to know that you had suffered so deeply, and all I ever did was obliviously chatter on about my childish problems. It wasn’t fair.
I often wished you were there. Now that I know what I know, I should have wished I were there for you.
I’m writing to you now, despite all odds, because there is one thing I regret not telling you. I regret it so much that my entire body hurts. I had so many opportunities and I took none of them. I could have told you in the letters – which you might or might not have read but at least there would have still been a chance that you would read them. Or I could have told you in person, because, hey, let’s face it: it was a miracle that I even got to see you again. I really should have taken the chance, but I never did tell you. It’s too late, but…
I love you.
I loved you then, and I love you now – and, call me stubborn, but I refuse to conjugate this verb in past tense. You, the memories of you, the mere notion of you, had been my driving force throughout the chapters of my life. You were in my life even when you weren’t. Miles Edgeworth, I don’t have the words to describe how important you were to me. And I think you will continue to be, even now that you are gone.
Despite what you might’ve thought of yourself, your legacy is one of brilliance and bravery. The world will remember you as such. I wish I could tell you that you didn’t have to choose death. I would beg you to stay even if that would be so selfish of me.
This letter, posthumous in terms of addressee, is not the first of its kind. Like all the others, I will burn it as soon as I finish it. I hope that it will reach you somewhere, somehow. You will call it whimsical, Edgeworth, but I don’t think I can stop writing you letters anytime soon.
Until the day I can say your name with a proper smile, I’ll keep writing.