To Pledge My Love to You: A Correspondence (2013-2025)

Five letters spanning enchantment, silence, and resurrection–exploring the spiral where love meets its own lucidity.

March 18, 2013, Bangkok

Ashley,

I like you more than I dare admit (I don't say love for now). The day you left, I felt insecure and sad not to have held you longer. "Lonely among them" at dinner. I didn't talk much, dreamed this letter, then lay on my bed listening to Boxhead Ensemble, Smog and Deakin until the battery died. Night came softly while I was still expecting November: the room where we would relieve our bodies. I played guitar then almost fell asleep. –Interlude of reality: Jimmy and Lydia knocked with beers. A British lady interrupted asking what to wear volunteering. "Stupid question guys," I repeated, walking to Full Moon, the bar where we all gathered. I got easily tipsy. –End of reality.

The loss of reality can last a long time. Next morning, still brewing. Had a delicious Lao aubergine burger (food details would not appear in the French version I'm correcting on the train to Bangkok–yes, wrote this on paper!). Annabel sat across from me, silently asking for talk. Deep and long; I protected some space inside where I keep the picture and flavor of your skin. I could express sympathy but couldn't receive her "still in love" fascinated gaze. The talk made me pass secretly from missing you emotionally to sexually and back again.

But the obsession goes on, from Vangvieng to Bangkok, surely longer still. I won't talk much–I am glad to know you. I hope we will share more in the future and hope we'll be honest. I wish you the best.

Cédric

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March 18, 2013, San Francisco

Cédric,

Your words are so beautiful that I am anxious to read your novel. I was so grateful for the short time I could see you in the morning before I left Sengkeo's guesthouse. When I left, I spent six hours on the most uncomfortable bus ride, in the front row between the driver and a very large sleeping woman. I was mourning the loss of our moments together, and all I wanted was to sleep to rid myself of the feeling, but instead stayed awake listening to Leonard Cohen. In Luang Prabang, I got drunk and almost bought a plane ticket to Thailand. I could not do it–I would be compromising too many obligations in my life...

When I arrived in San Francisco, I felt comfort that the torture of being near you but not being able to really speak was truly over. But then the torture started again when I switched on my phone after my flight and your email was waiting for me.

I am back to my reality. Last night I was very happy to be home with my husband and my dog. But it was difficult to sleep as memories kept me awake–our evenings together and your penetrating gaze from across our hammocks. I started handwriting my reply to your letter on the bus on my way to work, and I am now typing this to you from my office... it has been difficult to concentrate in the few hours I have been here. I have not felt this way in a very long time and it has taken me by surprise. I desire to continue to speak with you openly and honestly, and hope that whatever happens we are both happy and satisfied. I will speak to you soon.

Ashley

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This letter is Part of a contributor series.
Check back next week for the next letter in the correspondence.
→ To be continued…

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About the Writer: Cédric Van Caeter is a writer and philosopher whose private correspondence has spanned continents and decades. A contemplative observer of human paradox, he navigates the delicate territories between attention and solitude, finding profound meaning in the spaces between words. Currently in life's second act, he writes about love, loss, and the letters we're afraid to send.

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