Please Forget Me - Chapter 281

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

I felt both sorrowful and ashamed, so much so that I wanted to hide. By then, we had already moved on from the botanical encyclopedia to poetry collections—at my suggestion. A book of love poems.

Each time, I slipped my letters into pages that held poems mirroring my own heart, hoping you would understand how I felt.

At times, I wondered whether you had known all along and merely pretended not to notice, perhaps waiting for me to withdraw on my own.

I liked you enough that, even if I couldn’t be your lover, I wanted to remain your friend. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, didn’t want you to think you couldn’t even be friends with me.

So I stopped courting you in subtle ways and continued our exchanges as friends.

Then one day, you asked whether I had ever considered becoming a painter. For the first time in a while, I drew something for you—flowers and vines spelling out your name. While drawing, I shared a thought that had crossed my mind.

I hope you never marry, Miss Loveridge.
—
Why?
—
Your name contains love itself. Wouldn’t it be a shame if marriage made that love disappear?

At the time, I thought perhaps you didn’t want marriage at all. That you wished to live independently, like a marble rolling freely rather than a cog forced into a household machine.

That would have saddened me, but it was still better than seeing you become another man’s wife. I could remain by your side, unmarried as well. That hope was part of why I said it.

But then you replied with something I never could have imagined.

Then… does that mean you don’t intend to marry me?

Dana, you were a woman who could make a dead heart beat again with a single sentence.

The moment I read the hurt between your words, I wanted to run to you and shout that I did want to marry you—no, that I wanted to marry only you.

I barely restrained myself and instead spent the entire night writing a long letter of proposal.

I confessed everything: how deeply I loved you, why you were undoubtedly the missing half of my soul, how I could no longer restrain my feelings. I poured out my devotion without reserve.

I also laid out my plans for the future, I had to prove that I could be a dependable husband.

I proposed that we marry as soon as I came of age. I promised that I had enough money to support you until you became a doctor, that you could pursue your studies without worry.

I swore I would give you a wedding as grand and splendid as any princess’s, and I boldly claimed I would make you happy for the rest of your life.

Dana.

As I look at you now—sitting in a shabby inn room, wearing worn clothes, pointing a gun at me—I feel endlessly ashamed to revive those promises aloud.

Back then, I foolishly believed that as long as you chose me, I could overcome any hardship.

Miss Dana Loveridge, please—marry me.

But the reply to my five-page proposal was cold.

Anonymous sir, a lady does not accept a marriage proposal from a man whose name and face she does not know.

Yes. I proposed to you without even giving my name.

Even after growing close to you, I still lacked confidence.

‘She won’t want to marry a man with a disability.’

I know my condition is neither congenital nor permanent. But others don’t. To them, I was simply a boy who couldn’t speak. Not a boy who once spoke fluently, nor one who might recover someday—just a silent boy.

From the moment we began exchanging letters, I had been making relentless efforts. My first practice partners were aristocratic boys I had never spoken to before. At first, I could only manage a few words if someone familiar was present; later, I could speak one-on-one even with strangers.

Gaining confidence, I moved on to harder challenges—girls my own age.

But noble girls were always in groups, making it difficult to approach them and I feared you might misunderstand.

So I asked a maid my age to help me practice. She helped tremendously until my mother misunderstood and dismissed her.

…Sigh.

My mother blamed my lack of progress on my father, but in truth, she bore no small share of the responsibility herself.