Nevermore

Dear,
Do you remember the story I told you about that extraordinary girl I once mentioned? I’ve learnt something more about her and simply must tell you.

I.

She was born into an ordinary family. Everything around her was simple — a kind father, a gentle mother, a small room in a small flat filled with books. She wasn’t beautiful, only quietly remarkable: thick auburn hair, grey eyes, thin lips. A bookish girl, completely absorbed in her own imagined worlds, she lived more among pages than in reality.

School was particularly difficult. She kept to herself, awkward in conversation, never quite fitting in. Her days passed in a modest rhythm — classes, lunch alone, reading between lessons. The family couldn’t afford any leisure clubs or extra classes, so she read instead. She wore an old dark purple dress and worn shoes. The only thing that drew attention was her bright, luxuriant hair. Some classmates teased her, saying she looked like a medieval witch.

But time, as it does, moved on. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she began to blossom. It didn’t happen at once — her transformation was soft as dawn. She started meeting boys, going on occasional dates, and gradually discovered new parts of herself.

It’s quite something, isn’t it — spending time with a person who feels entirely at ease alone? Once you’ve felt that kind of calmness, you can never forget it. With such people, every hour feels meaningful, quietly dazzling. Yet for someone that intelligent and introspective, finding a partner is never easy. She tried, again and again, often giving men a second or even third chance — as if persistence itself might be love.

At twenty-four she had truly grown into herself. Fitter now, with long glossy red hair and a face that seemed somehow more harmonious. She never thought much about appearance — it had never been her focus. She worked as a journalist and adored her profession.

One winter she attended a professional conference and met a man — Indian, with charcoal-dark hair and eyes to match. For her, it was love at first sight. December snow lent their story a shine of quiet magic. On Christmas Eve he told her he felt as though she were already his wife. She didn’t quite understand what he meant, yet the very idea thrilled her.

Weeks turned into months; they grew close in easy, unhurried ways. They spent their free time together, and she explored his world — learning about his country’s traditions, tasting his food. She even tried cooking garlic naan and butter chicken, laughing at her own clumsy attempts.

And then, quite suddenly, everything began to fade. He called less often; messages came shorter, rarer. Without explanation, he drifted away. At last she received only six words in a text — the kind that can end a life: I like another girl. Good luck.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. For months she moved through days as if in fog — alive, but not living. Even sunlight felt intrusive.

And yet one day she woke with a new stillness. Not happiness, not even peace — merely the awareness of having survived. The world around her seemed sharper, more certain. Food tasted again. Air felt lighter. She realised she had returned, not as she was before, but as someone new — tempered by loss.

You might call it a typical story — heartbreak, recovery. Perhaps it is. But, my dear, there is more. Let me continue.

II.

She was twenty-eight now. Her life had settled into a quiet rhythm — working as an editor by day, helping pupils with literature in her spare hours. She was attractive in that subtle, knowing way some women become: graceful, self-assured, and in no hurry. She had no children, no steady relationship, and no need to rush towards either. The old wounds of the past had finally begun to fade. She simply enjoyed life — the pulse of the city, the scent of morning air, the calm of a bookshop on a rainy evening.

On weekends she often cycled through the park, losing herself in small freedoms. It was one of those spring afternoons that she met him — a tall, handsome Frenchman, with easy charm and the kind of gentleness that felt rare. He was in the city for a basketball training camp. There was an instant spark between them, light, and irresistible.

They began meeting almost daily — walking, talking, occasionally stealing kisses under the budding trees. Their time together was swift and fevered, full of laughter and late breakfasts. He told her endlessly about France, about Paris and the small town near Normandy where he grew up. Sometimes he came to her flat at sunrise, bringing croissants, coffee, and violets. Those weeks felt like a French film — sweet, romantic, fleeting. Even Amélie might have envied them.

The differences between them were obvious — language, culture, temperament — yet the fire of attraction shadowed everything else. She even started planning a trip to France. Her mind wandered through images of picnics near the Eiffel Tower, quiet walks along the Seine, then holidays at Trouville. She obtained her visa and waited for his next words.

It was May, a calm evening heavy with the fragrance of jasmine. The city lights hummed quietly, and her mood was light as air. He had promised to tell her something important. She chose her favourite dress, remembering the place where they’d first shared a glass of red wine. By then they already had a tradition — their own corner table, their own story.

But that evening, everything turned black.

He confessed there was another woman. She had been waiting for him in France all along — his girlfriend, his fiancée-to-be. They had been together for four years and were to marry that summer.

She walked home in silence, her thoughts fogged and disordered. For weeks she lived inside that silence. Another summer lost. Another piece of pain to carry. She tried to understand what had gone wrong, what she had overlooked — but there were no weak points, no mistakes she could name. Perhaps she had simply been too kind, too honest, too herself.

It was a long season before she recovered, and even then, she didn’t simply return to normal. Instead, she watched her life from a slight distance, as though it belonged to someone else. Yet when she came back to her work, her colleagues noticed a change. She was glowing, they said — radiant. Softer, more alluring, calm in a different way. The pain had refined her; it had made her luminous. Even her red hair seemed to gleam more brightly. There was a tenderness in her crystal-grey eyes that no one could ignore.

Tell me, my dear — does her story still sound typical now? Perhaps, from one angle, it is nothing unusual. Yet I know there is more. I will tell you.

III.

She was about thirty-three when they met — the man she thought might be her real companion. There was no instant fire, no startling revelation, only a quiet sense of comfort. They had met through Tinder, exchanged messages that felt easy and kind, and soon began seeing each other regularly.

By then she was radiant. Her long, straight, flame-red hair turned heads wherever she went. Her grey eyes seemed almost transparent, filled with confidence and memory. She carried within her all the echoes of her past — the remains of heartbreaks and recoveries that had made her strangely powerful. Pain had not destroyed her; it had fed her, like soil richened by storms.

That first summer with him was deceptively calm — dinners, shared laughter, the endless rhythm of new intimacy. They must have had a hundred lovely evenings together before he suddenly, one day, slipped a ring onto her finger.
She didn’t quite know whether to be happy or cautious. It was as if she had entered a quiet compromise — something safe, sufficient, yet not electric. Still, she accepted. Life, after all, was not a film. And perhaps comfort was its own kind of miracle.

They married. In many ways, they suited each other — both devoted to work, both steady and somewhat solitary by nature. She became pregnant within the year. He worked long hours, often late into the night, while she waited for him in their small flat. Many evenings she drifted into a half-sleep before he returned.

In those twilight dreams, she sometimes saw him with another woman — brunette hair, voluptuous, faceless yet vividly present. At times, she even imagined that woman during the moments they tried to make love. It frightened her. When she told her husband, he only laughed and said, “Freud could help you with that, darling.”
But one night, while he was in the shower, she saw a message on his phone — a woman’s name she didn’t know, a conversation too intimate to mistake. Her breath seemed to stop. A sharp ache seized her body, low and relentless. She didn’t scream; she simply stood still, cold all over, thinking of the child growing inside her.

Months later, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy. She survived by focusing entirely on him — his soft face, his tiny hands. The husband wept, begged forgiveness, called it “a stupid mistake.” For her son’s sake, she agreed to give him another chance.

In that period, people often noticed a striking young woman strolling through the city with a pram. Men turned their heads as she passed — drawn by her beauty, her open smile, her light-filled eyes. They could not have known what she had endured, or how much strength hid behind that gentleness. It was a terrible story, and a magnificent one. So it was, and there was nothing else to do — no pity, no alternative.

But, my dear, it isn’t the end of her story yet.

IV.

The last I heard of her, she was thirty-six — divinely beautiful, untamed, and impossibly magnetic. By then she had become head of an editorial office at a major publication. Divorced but entirely self-possessed, she lived with her little boy and his nanny, calm and efficient in her success. She was respected as a fair, rational leader — admired, though not always understood.

She had lovers again, of course. None of them were permanent; she never expected them to be. Yet her beauty seemed to deepen with age — almost unsettling in its intensity. “Red-haired sunlight,” one colleague once whispered about her. Her eyes, still that impossible shade of crystal grey, held a secret softness that no one could decipher.

Then came the young man. He was a decade younger, a DJ with blond curls, bright green eyes, and all the careless energy of youth. They met on a September evening, during a river cruise with mutual friends. Conversation came easily, as if they’d been waiting for it. They met again. And again.

It’s hard to describe her now — but imagine an autumn forest high in the mountains, seen from above as dawn breaks through the mist. Colours alive, air trembling, light pouring from every direction. She was like that — breathtaking and untouchable. The young man was lost from the first glance, devoured by her radiance. He, too, was known for his vanity, a notorious womaniser, but with her it was different. They became a legend in their circle — the dazzling, improbable couple everyone whispered about.

They were inseparable that autumn. They attended premières, dined in candlelit restaurants, danced at restless, glittering parties. Their names appeared in photographs, their laughter seemed endless. It lasted until Christmas.

And then — they vanished.

Before Christmas Eve, they had flown to Tenerife for a short holiday. But no one saw them return. No one heard from them again. They were simply gone. Nevermore.

People, as they do, whispered and speculated. “A tragedy,” some said. “A scandal,” said others. But there is another version of her story — one told quietly by a friend of her family. According to that tale, she was never married, never travelled far. She lived her whole life among books and dust, raising a son alone. She died near forty, peacefully, with her red hair still bright, her eyes still clear as glass.

Which story is true, my love? Both? Neither? Perhaps it doesn’t matter. They share the same ending — that fierce red hair, those impossible grey eyes, undimmed to the very last.

Tell me, sweetheart, which version would you choose to believe?

With kisses,
Tati