Dear Theodosia

by staringatjupiter

Theodosia Burr has always considered Philip Hamilton an acquaintance at most. Warned by her father, she has always kept her distance from the Hamiltons. That is, until a serendipitous walk allowed her and Philip to connect in an unexpected way.

19. Chapter 18

Philip

Dear Theodosia,

What to say to you?

It was late at night. I sat at my desk wondering whether I should write something down or not. It felt lugubrious to write my own will, especially because I was not going there to die. I had every intention of making it out alive.

I wondered whether I should write down a goodbye to my loved ones. I could not think of anything more sinister, but what if I never saw them again?

I wondered which my mother would prefer. Would she rather not have any last words from me, as if my death had been improvised and spontaneous? Or would she rather have them, knowing that I was so sure of my own death that I wrote them for her?

I thought of all the things that might forever go unsaid. Should I say them? Should I wait until I get my second chance at life, to profess them aloud?

I thought of Theodosia, and all I should have said to her.

I prayed for a chance to do so. At some point during our walk around the woods earlier that day, I decided that if I managed to get out alive, it would be for the sole purpose of telling her how I felt.

I decided I wouldn't care anymore about what our families might think. I would prove my father wrong if he ever tried to oppose it. If she would have me, I would fight for it. For her.

However, the unremitting doubt crept. What if I didn't have a chance to tell her at all?

The blank paper stood in front of me. I knew I would regret not letting her know, in whatever way I could. I also knew I had a particular ability with the written word. I envisioned the letter I hadn't been brave enough to write yet.

I could give it to a messenger tomorrow morning, before I left, and ask him to deliver it to her the next day, once the duel was part of the past. By the time she would receive it, I would be either alive and released or dead and gone. In one of the scenarios, we could fight for each other. In the other… at least she would know.

I was aware of the fact that I should not be too open in what I wrote, out of fear it would end in the hands of the wrong person and ruin the progress I intended to make. It had to be a subtle message, but one that was sufficient.

I took my quill and completely blanked. What could I even say? How could I even begin to put it into words? I guess I was not that good with them after all.

I thought of her. Of how she looked under a tree's shadow. How she walked at a quick pace. I thought of how much she kept quiet, although one look to her eyes was enough to know everything she was thinking. I thought about how she looked at the things she loved, and how she found joy in moonlit nights and strawberry pastries. I thought of her in the midst of cold, crisp air and in the amplitude of a warm summer day.

I thought of her back when we were only kids. I thought of her in all the balls we attended, all the times I looked at her, but I didn't see her. I thought of her in the middle of a garden, escaping the chaos, casually having encountered one another for a brief minute. I thought of how one could tell she was in her element.

With that in mind, I knew what to do.