With a sigh, I push myself up from the forest floor and brush the pine needles off my work pants. Who knows if I even have nightmares. After all, it could have been one of Elina's lies.
Elina.
A sharp pain pierces my chest. I bite my lip. She doesn't belong here. Yet she refuses to disappear.
Since I last saw her in Munich four days ago, I've been doing everything to forget her. But the opposite is happening. My thoughts are consumed by her every waking minute. Hour by hour, my longing grows more intense.
I wonder what she's doing right now. I want to know what she's thinking at this moment. And sometimes, when I run out of strength to resist, I wish she would come back to me. Despite everything she's done to me.
My God, how will I ever manage to forget this woman?
Looking around for help, I see that everything on this clearing is filled with memories. Yet I must find closure with her.
I trudge toward the house, grab a bottle of beer from the fridge, and drag myself to the porch. This table is the only place where we never sat together. Weary, I reach for the chair and pull it back.
A rustling sound reaches my ears. Instinctively, I look down and discover an envelope.
It's Elina's letter.
The one I returned unopened four days ago.
I lift it up. The envelope is crumpled and stained. It looks as if the wind had it in its clutches. Now, even the fine sawdust that clings to my fingers lands on the envelope. Should I read the letter?
Even as the question forms in my mind, my index finger slips under the edge of the adhesive on the envelope without my conscious effort. The paper tears noisily, revealing a folded sheet.
"Better leave it be," I admonish myself, but in the same moment, I feel as defenseless as ever.
There is this longing inside me, screaming so loudly for Elina that it would absorb everything it can get from her.
And this message that I now draw from the envelope is the only thing I have from her right now.
My head doesn't want it, but my heart couldn't care less. My hands unfold the paper.
Dear Noah,
I don't know where to begin. Should I start with apologizing? Should I tell you that I can't imagine a life without you? Or should I address what overshadows all of this? What is currently the most important thing?
It hurts to write these words, but I must do it. Because what matters most right now is not us or what I wish for us.
It's you.
And that alone was the reason I took you to the trauma expert. I wanted to help you shed your past. To become healthy again. To be happy.
Shaking my head, I clench my fists. The paper crumples with a loud noise. I've already heard the same thing in Munich. But even if she thought she was doing something good, it doesn't change the fact that she betrayed me.
I shouldn't continue reading, but I can't stop myself.
I think you are suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. This illness is blocking your brain, which is why you can't remember the accident. Only at night, when yourconsciousness is weakened, does the truth emerge in the form of nightmares. But your trauma is so strong that you even suppress it yourself.
I know I sound like an overly cautious doctor, but it's important to me that you understand this: what you're suffering from won't just disappear if you ignore it long enough.
What does she know anyway? She has no idea what it feels like inside me. However, she seems to be right about one thing. Julian's death has been weighing on me for months. And it's undeniable that my return to mountain rescue was the beginning of my health issues. It would be logical to think that the work triggered me. Blinking heavily, I lower myself onto the porch chair.
You feel lost, but you're not.
There is a way for you to leave all of this behind. I now realize that it was wrong to force you to confront your past. And it would be just as wrong for me to tell you what I've discovered about the accident.
You wouldn't believe me.
