Please Forget Me - Chapter 279

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

An apology made of words alone felt somehow lacking. Whenever my father had something to be forgiven for by my mother, he would present her with an armful of white tulips.

But summer was not the season for tulips. There were none in the greenhouse either. The man who always ordered white tulips to be kept in bloom—just in case he ever needed to apologize—must have grown careless around that time.

After much deliberation, I picked up a brush instead. I hoped that a basket of white tulips that would never wither might be enough to earn your forgiveness.

The next day, while everyone else was enjoying tea, I slipped into the library and opened the botany book. The moment I did, I nearly cheered aloud.

[I’ll forgive you, especially since you drew me so beautifully.]

[That’s because, Miss Loveridge, you truly are beautiful.]

I left a bold reply. After all, my feelings must have already been exposed through your portrait. At the very least, my identity had not. So I found the courage to write. Strangely enough, the pessimistic thought that you might never reply again gave me even more nerve.

[You must be beautiful as well. I can tell just from your drawings and your words.]

And then, my pessimism was shattered.

[Your name must be beautiful too. Please tell me what it is.]

The moment I read that, a new fear took hold. If you learned that the man who gifted you delicate sketches and sweet words was someone who couldn’t even speak properly—someone who had once resorted to his fists—you might never write back again.

[Wouldn’t it be boring if I told you outright? Try to guess.]

Perhaps, in hearing your guesses, I might even discover the man you had in mind. The thought alone made me restless with anxiety until your reply arrived.

[I feel like a detective now. But to make deductions, I’ll need clues.
Mysterious sir—would you agree to an interview?]

And so we began exchanging letters, using a single book as our messenger. As it turned out, we had much in common. I found myself falling in love not only with your beauty, but with your mind.

Do you enjoy hunting?
—
Not really. Do you like hunting, Miss Loveridge?
—
I’m relieved. I actually dislike it. Hunting to eat, I accept that as part of life. But hunting for sport makes me frown. How can one find pleasure in killing another living being? If my criticism is too harsh, I apologize.
—
Not at all. I feel the same. I dislike killing when it isn’t for survival. Isn’t it strange to call people barbarians for hunting to live? Those who kill for amusement are the truly barbaric ones.
—
Exactly! I don’t understand how that barbarity became synonymous with masculinity. Of course, it’s probably a tradition passed down from times when such traits were considered virtues. But we don’t need to cling to that now. I believe the world should define ‘manly’ as being gentlemanly.
—
Miss Loveridge, we really do think alike. A culture that demands proof of masculinity through brutality constantly puts my humanity on trial.
When I’m dragged along on hunts, I pretend to drive the prey but deliberately leave openings so they can escape. When I absolutely must shoot, I make sure to miss.
At first, my father thought I was simply terrible at hunting. Eventually he realized I was letting them go on purpose and I was severely scolded for it.
Still, I never abandoned my convictions. Because of that, I’ve heard all sorts of things—being called unmanly, a coward… I don’t believe I’m wrong, but hearing those words over and over sometimes makes me feel like a failure.
—
A failure? Not at all. You are a gentleman.

You called me a gentleman.

That single sentence kept me awake for days, my heart fluttering. You said that being gentlemanly was what made a man and you called me a gentleman. Wasn’t that the same as saying I was man enough for you?

I know. That was an interpretation swollen with my own wishes. It was my first time in love. I can’t help it if it sounds foolish.

Still, I began to feel at ease with you, because you disliked the same things I did. And you, for reasons similar yet different, seemed to find comfort in me as well.

But don’t you ever find me exhausting? I have so many opinions.
—
Exhausting? Not at all. Isn’t it only natural for someone who thinks to have opinions?