Page 31 of Forever Midnight

“Okay. Any chance I can get you to grab me a burger or something on your way back?”

“Of course. Cheese?”

“And bacon, please.”

“You got it. Just stay put. I’ll be home soon.”

“Okay.”

I end the call, deciding I should send off a text to my mom to let her know I’m still fine. I should go home, but I don’t really want to. I shoot her a text indicating I might stay over again for a movie marathon. She’s so excited that she thinks I have a friend, she doesn’t even question me. I scoff. If only she knew I was hanging out with a bunch of murderers. She’d shit her pants.

After the call, I push away thoughts of what just happened in the music room and instead snoop around Midnight’s apartment. He has a lot of books and art, but otherwise, his place is pretty sparse. As I gaze at a shelf of books, one of them grabs my eye. It sticks out from the others, almost like I was meant to see it.

I pull it down, taking it to the couch with me where I sit. The book seems old, with its crackled cover and binding that creaks when opened. The pages are yellowed, the edges tattered. Very carefully, I flip through it, my eyes roaming over the stylish but antiquated handwriting. It looks like a journal of some kind, and it’s definitely not English. French maybe, but it’s hard to tell.

I notice the name Benedict several times, and the longer I read, the more the words become clear. Random since I don’t know a damn word of French. It’s reminiscent of English though. At least some of it is.

17 Janvier 1796

Benedict refused to see me this morning. He insists that distance is the only way our torrid affair can end. Does he not understand that my soul is so deeply entwined with his, that separation equals death for me? My breath is his, my eyes see only him. Yet, he tortures me with his absence.

Someone Midnight loved once. My stomach twists and flips while I reread the paragraph. The date at the top of the page makes no sense though. Oh. Maybe he wrote some kind of historical romance novel. That would be cool. I continue reading.

Yves tells me to let Benedict go. He insists that love will find me again someday, but I reject his optimism. Benedict is my soulmate. This I am sure of.

My chest tightens the more I read, my heart speeding up slightly. Why am I reacting like this to some flowery diary entry?

I flip forward several pages, scanning as I read.

22 Avril 1797

What a glorious week! I stole my love away to the Riviera to avoid all the tension in Paris. The war is never ending. There was a moment as the morning sun washed over Benedict that I wanted to share my secret. To tell him what I really am. We could spend an eternity together, watching a million sunrises and sunsets. I know he loves me as I love him. I just have to be brave.

I read forward a few more pages, stopping when I see only one sentence on the page.

He does not accept me.

What kind of secret could there be that would keep two men apart? Hmm. It was the eighteenth century. It was probably considered scandalous to be gay. Maybe. I have no idea how France saw those things.

So it’s a tragic love story. Did Midnight write this, or did he find it somewhere? It’s too old to be contemporary. Unless there’s some kind of aging technique that looks really authentic.

I continue flipping pages until I come across a piece of paper folded up and tucked into the crease. I open it carefully, aware of its age.

My dearest Leander,

I wish I had better news, but sadly, I must ask that you discontinue contact posthaste. While I loved the man I knew, this other part of you is not something I can simply overlook. I am angry with you, Leander. You should have told me sooner. You should never have kissed me the way you did or offered your heart when you carried such a shocking secret. I gave you my body, my heart, but I cannot give you my soul.

You have destroyed me. Ruined me for all others. How will I go on? Who will love me now? Who will erase your kisses from my memory? It is impossible.

I hope you are as ruined as I. I pray my kisses torment your mind as yours do mine. I wish to forget the nights in your arms. With much pain in my heart, I must say goodbye, Leander.

Benedict xxx

4 Octobre 1789

Ouch. Savage breakup letter. I read over it again, my fingers tingling as I touch the words on the page. What a sad story.

I flip a few more pages, curious how the story ends, but when I find out, I’m not prepared.

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