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<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'"></span>​</div><div style="margin: auto; overflow: visible; max-width: 439px;background: #0000000; color: #000000;text-align: justify"><br/>
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'">She was always leaving things unsaid. </span><br/>
<br/>
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'">October 10, 1854</span><br/>
<br/>
<i><span style="font-family: 'Lobster Two'">My love,<br/>
<br/>
I am so relieved to hear from you finally <s>(I’m scared)</s> Promise me you are ok.<s> (I know that you aren’t)</s> I would like nothing more than to grip your face just to kiss you no matter how disheveled or dirty I am sure you must undoubtedly be. </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Lobster Two'"><i><s>( I miss you)</s></i></span><i><span style="font-family: 'Lobster Two'"> We have both been beautiful messes since the day we met, I don't see why that should change.<s> (I love you- I have always loved you)</s> Things are so dull here without you. <s>(There is a ring I do not want sitting on my desk)</s> The war has gone on too long<s> (My parents, will not let me wait for you forever)</s><br/>
<br/>
Do you ever wish we had run when we had the chance? <s>(Have we run out of time?)</s><br/>
<br/>
Externally yours,<br/>
Adelaide </span></i><br/>
<div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'">-1852-</span>​</div><br/>
<br/>
<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'">She was sprawled in the grass, picking clovers out of the garden as if she needed the luck. Maybe she did- her debut was in a week's time and she could delay it no longer despite all her best efforts. She wasn’t sure why but all she felt was dread. She’d rather spend her days picking clovers over finding a husband suitable for high society. <br/>
<br/>
Her dress was collecting green stains and strawberry-colored hair had pulled loose of its style and blew in the evening wind in unruly tendrils. Once her mother caught sight of her she’d surely be chided for such an appearance. Adelaide had assumed the footsteps on the garden path were hers when she heard them coming toward her. She was preparing for her reprimand and then she saw him; silver hair like moonlight disheveled on his head,  sleeves rolled up his arms, sweat beaded on his brow clearly from a hard day's work. She couldn’t remember what he'd said to her then, could only remember being dumbstruck, dazed. His eyes landed on her like an arrow in her chest.<br/>
<br/>
"Have we met before?"</span><br/>
<div style="text-align: center"><br/>
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New'">-1962-</span>​</div><div style="text-align: right">​</div><span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'"><i>'"Tonight wasn't your best night"</i><br/>
<br/>
a voice she knew well told her and her fingers stopped moving on the bar top. She hummed loud like a groan and squeezed ocean-colored eyes closed as if in pain. She knew that already. Her playing had been suffering in the last week. She was well aware of it. It didn't have to tell her so but then it continued and she realized all at once it hadn't come from her head this time. This voice was outside, real. Her eyes shot open and she turned her body towards the one she never realized was next to hers. When her eyes found the voice’s owner the ocean in them roared <br/>
<br/>
<i><b>'Are you real?'</b></i> <br/>
<br/>
She wanted to ask but her tongue went dumb. He looked exactly as she had always conjured him; beautiful, same moonlight hair and matching eyes. If she were any good at drawing she could have done it from memory. And there he was like she'd molded him into flesh. She didn't understand how. She wanted to chalk it up to seeing things she wanted to see. She'd imagined meeting him a thousand times: in a garden in the sunset glow, lying half nude and making glances across a crowded room, seaside she met him wiping away tears from her eyes. Every time he told her to finish the song. When they got out of this dark and fog-filled room she'd find he looked nothing like the thing she imagined. She knew it but she’d play along anyway. It wouldn’t be the first time. <br/>
<br/>
She felt like crying all of a sudden then and she didn't know why. But she blinked and instead, she said "we were supposed to have a third, the balance was off." <br/>
<br/>
It was an excuse. Christofer would call her on it. Christopher, their third, the level ground to Henri's untethered optimism and her heavy cynicism. A piano to round out the sound. Was that why she felt like crying now? Was that the meaning in Henri’s careful looks and check-ins? No- she was mostly only mad at him for leaving. She would not cry over him. <br/>
<br/>
"Cellos don't go solo," she said a moment later and turned back to the bar in time for a bartender’s appearance. A drink order was made and she glanced sideways back to the man as if to make sure he hadn't vanished in the time spent not looking. "We work best in pairs or groupings."<br/>
<br/>
"Are you a fan?" She'd be surprised if he said yes. She hadn't made much of a name for herself around the club scene. She definitely hadn't seen him before she would have remembered if she had. "Or is that just a line you like to use?" It was her turn to smirk. She doubted he got to use it much; the pool of women that performed in these places was a small but talented one. A moment later and a gin martini was placed in front of her along with A whiskey sour for Henri. She had a feeling now that his drink would go stale before she ever made it back to him.</span></div>