Lost Love

To Eli, (whom I never had the chance to call my beloved),

I don't know where to begin, or if I should even be writing this at all. Yet, something deep inside compels me to put these words on paper. I don't know if this letter will ever reach you. You haven't written to your family in over a month—I asked your mother. With mixed emotions, overwhelmed by motherly love, she told me you must not have had the chance to write back. She holds onto hope for your return, and so do I.

How could I have told you when you were here? I didn’t even know myself that I harbored feelings of affection for you. But from the day you left, it has slowly dawned on me—I love you with all my heart. I tried to fight it, but love has consumed me. There is no shame in admitting that I have been defeated by love.

We grew up together. You, a shy boy, and yet we talked so much. You were always a dear friend to me, but we never had enough time together. Nineteen years old, and already on the front lines, fighting a war that seems endless. The stories of the First World War were still fresh, and now, here we are, writing new ones. Stories of broken hearts, unfulfilled love, lost friends, and mothers waiting for sons who will never return. Many fathers will never see the children they spent their youth raising. This is the story of us all. In war, kings may win or lose, but for people like us, there is only loss.

I hope to see you again—just once more. Even if you don’t feel the same love for me, I only wish to see you in good health, happy and alive. After months of burning in separation, I have changed. In the beginning, all I wanted was to see you, to be with you, to never let you go. But as time passed, my own desires faded, and your well-being became my only priority.

A girl not yet twenty, yet I think and feel like a woman, while others my age remain playful, savoring the joy of youth. Life has shaped me too soon. Perhaps this is why most adults lose their playfulness—because they have been exposed to life’s harshest truths. The more you understand life, the quieter you become. That is how I am now. I no longer go out with friends much, and when I do, I sit silently, like a passing breeze. People notice me only when it is time to leave. They say I have changed—that I look weak and pale, that I don’t eat much, that I only speak when spoken to. But I don’t see it that way. I am not worried about myself. I know I will be fine… if only I could see you again, or even just hear from you—if you have the chance to write back.

I wish to see you again, full of spirit—the way you were when you left, smiling and laughing with your usual charm. You and the your other friends were so full of energy, eager to fight for your country. I don’t know if you are still together at the front, but I hope you are. In the company of loved ones, we remain connected to life. But not everyone is that fortunate—Uncle William wasn’t.

You know my Aunt Mary; she lives in the nearby town. Her husband, Uncle William, was always cold and harsh, especially toward his wife and children. Yet, what surprised us all was that Aunt Mary never seemed upset by his behavior. She never uttered a complaint, never spoke ill of him. Even as their children grew older, she continued to teach them obedience, urging them never to disrespect their father. When asked why, she simply smiled and said, "You should have seen him in his youth—there was no one like him in the whole town. War changed him. He lost all his friends, and when he returned, he was no longer the same. He became distant, bitter. But I will never leave him. I understand his pain. This is what love is—it embraces both the good and the bad. I will always love him and stand by his side for as long as life allows me to."

I long to see that same smile on your face, that youthful, energetic spirit. But war changes people, and that frightens me. Sometimes, I imagine you returning, laughing and joking with your friends. Sometimes, I picture passing you by on the street. And sometimes, I dream of being closer to you than we have ever been. In your absence, past memories and these hopes have become my dearest companions.

At times, I wish I could return to the past—or leap forward into the future. And other times, I simply pray that, somehow, this long war will end. I am beginning to understand the love Aunt Mary has for her husband. I feel the same for you. Even if you don’t share my feelings, even if you choose someone else, I will be at peace, as long as you are safe and happy. These words are not easy for a woman to say, but my love for you has taught me to think beyond myself.

Perhaps, if darkness ever tries to consume your soul, these words will remind you that someone waits for you back home. I only wish I had realized my feelings sooner. But how could I? Love works in silence—hidden, unnoticed—until separation reveals how deeply it has taken root. It changes you, refining you, stripping away all that is impure until only something true and unbreakable remains.

I will stand by your side—whether as a friend or something more, if that is what you wish. And if you would rather I go, I will. I only want you to know that I love you with no expectations, no conditions. I will always be here, should you ever need comfort. I want you to hold on, to not surrender to the despair that war so often brings. Come back—not just in body, but with a soul still bright, unshadowed by hopelessness.

I will wait for you. Your friend,

Anna.