It was about eight o’clock in the evening, and the sun had gone down long ago. Hyleigh sat sideways on the porch swing with her back against the arm and her legs stretched out across the bench. She wore one of her mother’s sweaters and had a quilt draped over her. There were no trees in her mother’s front yard, and it gave her an unobstructed view of the night sky. Eorzean nights were always bright, even without the moon, but this night was particularly vibrant. The galaxy stretched on and on above her.
She pulled up one leg and hugged her knee, then rested her head on it. She watched the moon rise above the tree line across the yard, but it didn’t dim the stars. She barely saw the view, though. She couldn’t stop thinking about the dream she had a few nights ago or the letter that had caused it. It was a new letter.
His handwriting is atrocious, she mused. She shook her head. What did he say between that horrible question and “doesn’t matter, I’m happy?” I just can’t make it out. Is it something that would soften the blow? Something that would make this okay? She sighed.
And then there was the dream. She’d been unpleasant, just like she’d been in the letters she’d written to him a couple years ago. What is it about him that brings out the worst in me? She was thankful she hadn’t replied while she was still experiencing strong emotions.
A few years ago, while she was habitually oversharing in her letters, Augustine had told her that he’d bleed with her. At the time, she hadn’t given his words the acknowledgement they deserved. She’d frankly skimmed right over them, but she remembered them now. Could that be the spirit with which he asked? Was he trying to understand her? Be there for her? But if so, why would he say it doesn’t matter? And what on earth did he scrawl in between?
She took a deep breath, held it briefly, and then let it out slowly. The moon had cleared the tree line without her realizing it. She adjusted the quilt to cover her feet.
She didn’t want to get back in the habit of using him as a shoulder to cry on—or trying to, at any rate. She wanted to be more positive, to be more…herself. She wanted to be less selfish. She wanted to get to know him better. She wanted him to feel like he mattered to her.
She struggled to remember the exact circumstances of their parting, but she clearly remembered her final words to him. They were mean. She’d leveled a nasty accusation on him, an accusation she recently discovered he’d taken with surprising grace, though he did call her a “monster.” She felt she deserved that.
He’d sent this most recent letter just before leaving for the Carteneau Flats. He was already gone. If she sent a reply, would the delivery moogle find him? Would he be able to find a way to write back? She doubted it.
