Work Text:
Dear Gilbert,
I look like my mother…
Oh, how I wish you could have stayed for the wonderfully adventurous afternoon I had with Matthew and Marilla. As you must recall, I embarked on a tragical search for my birth parents many months ago, and to my great sadness, it heeded very little. The orphanage had nothing; my correspondences of inquiry gave me very little; only the church revealed to me that my parents did indeed die when I was three years old and that I am from Scotland.
After you left, Matthew and Marilla returned with a book--my mother’s book. It’s a book on plants given from my father to my mother and is filled with her scribbles and most romantic inner thoughts. On the back, there is a drawing of her, and--oh, Gilbert, she looks like me. Or, rather, I look like her.
There is such peace in knowing where I am from and that I knew love before I knew anything else--even if I forgot it for a little while.
I miss you dearly.
Which is odd to think about, considering I imagined my life quite devoid of you before today.
I don’t know what exactly happened or what spirits allowed us to come to this point. I don’t know what came about my letter or what was in yours or how we’ve managed to hurt each other without having the slightest intention to.
Here is what I do know, Gilbert Blythe.
I love you.
And the world is alight with possibility.
I am sure the truth of what happened will come out in time. For now, I am content with this--my true feelings being revealed, and hoping to hear yours in writing soon.
Classes begin tomorrow, and I feel aflame with what might happen. I am so thankful to be embarking on this journey with all the girls I have come to love dearly; and now, with you by my side, in spirit if not in person.
I hope you made it to Toronto safely and I can hardly wait to hear about your adventures, too. Write me, dear one. As quickly as you can. Write me, write me, write me.
With love,
Anne.