NOTE: Sorry if this is no good. Flame if you like, I won't enjoy it, but it's better than if you don't.
Edgar does not neglect me, nor does he smother me with too much attention. He has good manners, and he always says things I like to hear. He's a pleasure to look at, and Thrushcross Grange is exactly the sort of house I've always wanted to live in. I have no right to have any kind of blemish in my happiness. I have no right to gaze longingly over at the moors and feel unfulfilled. I have no right to look at the perfect silk dress that I have carefully selected and want to see it burning. I have no right to be bored by Edgar and Isabella's light chatter. I most especially have no right to look at Edgar and wish he were someone else, to wish his clean fair hair were black and wild, that his soft skin felt rougher, that his handsome blue eyes were black ones that understood the inside and outside of my true soul. I do love him, and not even in the dutiful, dispassionate way unfulfilled wives typically love their husbands. I'm beginning to think I can never be happy, that I will always want what is not. It's been years since I haven't wanted something. Yet, I think if I turned back time, I would know better. I think I could be happy with a plain dress, an open moor, and him. He's always there, isn't he? He's a shadow over my marriage, he's what stops me from ever achieving true happiness. He's the reason I'm thinking these thoughts, even. Heathcliff. I meant it when I said I was him. I still am. I have never mentioned to anyone, and I worry I curse myself by the mere thought of it. I believe he is dead. I'm sure of it. It's a silly thought. He was always resilient, never broke under the harsh reign of my brother. I have no reason to believe he is dead. None. But I'm convinced of it, I'm convinced that wherever he is, whatever his fate was, his senses are bereft, and that he exists no more. Perhaps it would be better if he is dead. If he is alive, he is conscious of another place, and I have no way of knowing if he thinks of me. If he is dead, his spirit will always surround me, and I will no longer worry about finding him, or sneaking to see him, because his soul will fill me inside, forever. I have no right to feel this longing. I should have happiness, but I cannot.
Nelly is coming through the door. She has the oddest expression on her face.
"A person from Gimmerton wishes to see you, ma'am."
"What does he want?" I toss out the words. Does it truly matter who is here now?
"I did not question him." she answers.
"Well, close the curtains, Nelly, and bring up tea. I'll be back again directly." I commanded, rising myself up from the seat, and turning the corner to see the last person I would ever expect to see. Not dead. Not even far away. Here with me, now. Heathcliff. The hurts of the past three years wash away, the discontentment vanishes. Heathcliff. I'm too excited to say a thing, instead rushing back upstairs to tell anyone who will listen the news.