[ Vitaly's reply doesn't come for some time. He has - so much to sort out. How Nova simply rushed into his life like a force of nature, like a wave cresting over him. (How much he's needed a wave cresting over him. To feel something. To feel anything like this is to feel breathing again.)
But also.
He doesn't...tell people. Not about Madeline. Not about -
That's something he keeps silent, as though speaking of it will open it up to catastrophe worse than what's already come.
...But Nova has been married. Nova is still here, still patiently seeking words and asking him what he needs. Every word has fallen into places of rightness and warmth and - And.
And the question becomes: How much does he want Nova to know?
(How much of his life would he share with someone who talks the way Nova does, now so carefully, no longer running sentences together or rambling but trying very hard for coherence. How much with someone who burns brighter than any star and who says 'Talik' - even in text - and makes him breathless?
At his age.)
It's a risk.
Maybe he can...just once. Venture a risk. ]
What do I need? If I knew the answer to that question, perhaps I would solve all my discontents.
I would like, though. I want -
What isn't any right of mine to ask.
[...]
Or promise.
I don't speak of her, you know. I don't [...] share this piece of myself.
But I know it would grieve me to lose you, Nova. If all it ever will be is words and friendship, I would be satisfied. Happy, even.
And if I can't give you pieces of myself that I wish, I can share with you what I speak of with no one else.
That [...] is why I'll answer you. What's keeping me with it, as you say.
I keep with it because I have made mistakes in anger and belief, and so have complicated things enough that a divorce is [...] difficult.
I can't divorce her now without her presence in Ukraine. She won't come. I -
A moment.
[ He sends another photo; in this one, he's holding a small boy, the spitting image of Vitaly. ]
[...]
Sergiy. My other beautiful, joyful thing in this world. My heart, you see?
I could divorce her without her presence, but she would take him. The courts could do nothing to stop her; there are no resources to spare on my domestic woes, nor should there be.
At least I see him. She makes her demands, yes, but I see him. He knows his father. He knows I am here, and that I won't leave him.
[...]
[...]
I would like you to know the same.
I am with you - tonight, yes. I [...] would like to remain.
Even feeling the absence of what it might have been, there is more wholeness in speaking with you now than
[...]
I can't give you anything but the truth of my world - and this, if you would accept it: I told you a name to call me. Though perhaps I should not have done, I think you have more right to it than any other in this world.
As a friend, if no other name, yes.
But that other name is yours to use. Or hold in silence. Or cast aside.
no subject
But also.
He doesn't...tell people. Not about Madeline. Not about -
That's something he keeps silent, as though speaking of it will open it up to catastrophe worse than what's already come.
...But Nova has been married. Nova is still here, still patiently seeking words and asking him what he needs. Every word has fallen into places of rightness and warmth and - And.
And the question becomes: How much does he want Nova to know?
(How much of his life would he share with someone who talks the way Nova does, now so carefully, no longer running sentences together or rambling but trying very hard for coherence. How much with someone who burns brighter than any star and who says 'Talik' - even in text - and makes him breathless?
At his age.)
It's a risk.
Maybe he can...just once. Venture a risk. ]
What do I need? If I knew the answer to that question, perhaps I would solve all my discontents.
I would like, though. I want -
What isn't any right of mine to ask.
[...]
Or promise.
I don't speak of her, you know. I don't [...] share this piece of myself.
But I know it would grieve me to lose you, Nova. If all it ever will be is words and friendship, I would be satisfied. Happy, even.
And if I can't give you pieces of myself that I wish, I can share with you what I speak of with no one else.
That [...] is why I'll answer you. What's keeping me with it, as you say.
I keep with it because I have made mistakes in anger and belief, and so have complicated things enough that a divorce is [...] difficult.
I can't divorce her now without her presence in Ukraine. She won't come. I -
A moment.
[ He sends another photo; in this one, he's holding a small boy, the spitting image of Vitaly. ]
[...]
Sergiy. My other beautiful, joyful thing in this world. My heart, you see?
I could divorce her without her presence, but she would take him. The courts could do nothing to stop her; there are no resources to spare on my domestic woes, nor should there be.
At least I see him. She makes her demands, yes, but I see him. He knows his father. He knows I am here, and that I won't leave him.
[...]
[...]
I would like you to know the same.
I am with you - tonight, yes. I [...] would like to remain.
Even feeling the absence of what it might have been, there is more wholeness in speaking with you now than[...]
I can't give you anything but the truth of my world - and this, if you would accept it: I told you a name to call me. Though perhaps I should not have done, I think you have more right to it than any other in this world.
As a friend, if no other name, yes.
But that other name is yours to use. Or hold in silence. Or cast aside.
'Talik' is yours, if 'Vitaly' can't b[...]
[...]
[...]
Please - be with me, still, also.