My Dearest Love

November 2, 1917My Dearest Eleanor,

The cold bites deeper than the bullets, and yet, it is not the war that haunts me—it is the absence of you. The trenches are suffocating, filled with the scent of damp earth and desperation, but none of it compares to the loneliness I feel without your voice, your laughter, your touch.

Each night, I close my eyes and summon the memory of you. The way the autumn sun kissed your hair the last time we walked by the Thames, the way your fingers hesitated before they intertwined with mine—so delicate, so certain. Do you still sit by the window, tracing raindrops on the glass? Do you still hum that waltz under your breath when you think no one is listening?

They say we fight for king and country, but in truth, I fight for the dream of coming home to you. The world here is filled with thunder and smoke, but in the quiet moments between the chaos, I imagine the warmth of your arms, the press of your lips against mine, and I swear, it is the only thing keeping me alive.

Write to me, Eleanor. Tell me of home, of the sound of London’s streets, of the scent of fresh bread from the corner bakery. Tell me that you still wear the locket I gave you, the one that holds a piece of my soul.

Yours, always,James

November 18, 1917My Beloved James,

Your letter arrived with the first snowfall, and I pressed it to my heart before I dared to unfold it. The ink smudged slightly beneath my trembling fingers, and I wondered—was it your tears, or mine?

The city is quieter without you. I no longer stroll by the Thames; it feels wrong without your hand in mine. The bakery still smells of warm bread, but it tastes of longing. And yes, my love, I still wear your locket. I trace its edges every night, whispering your name into the silence.

I dreamed of you last night. You stood beneath the old oak tree where we carved our initials, your uniform pristine, your eyes bright. I ran to you, but the moment I touched you, you vanished into mist. I woke up with your name on my lips and an ache in my chest that no daylight could chase away.

Come back to me, James. Swear to me that you will return. This war has taken too much already; I will not let it take you, too.

Forever yours,Eleanor

December 24, 1917My Dearest Eleanor,

It is Christmas Eve, but there is no warmth here, no candlelight, no carols. Just the wind howling through the trenches like a grieving mother. The men speak of home in hushed tones, their voices fragile against the weight of war. I think of you. I think of our Christmases past, the scent of pine and cinnamon filling the air, the flicker of firelight in your eyes. How cruel that I am here, and you are there, and yet my heart has never left your side.

Eleanor, my love, if fate is kind, I will find my way back to you. If not, promise me you will remember. Not just the man who left, but the love we shared. Keep my letters, press them close, and know that every word is a piece of my soul reaching for you across the miles.

Yours, until my last breath,James

January 10, 1918My Love,

This morning, the telegram arrived. The words blurred before my eyes, but the message was clear.

James is gone.

They say he died a hero, that he fought bravely, that he did not suffer. But I do not care for their words, their medals, their hollow condolences. I care only for the letters, the ink that still smells faintly of him, the ghost of his handwriting whispering across the parchment. I read them over and over, until the candle burns low and my tears blot the page.

James, my love, my dearest heart—how cruel is the world that it lets me keep your words but not your touch, your voice, your breath? I will not say goodbye. I will not let you fade into the silence of history. I will keep your letters, I will carry your name, and I will love you beyond time itself.

Eternally yours,Eleanor