Jeremiah Rowland was the chief translator at an agency based in Geneva. We had been in a long-distance relationship for five years. Every time we video-called, he was revising documents, and the screen behind him was always covered in red and blue edits.
The only time I ever asked for a little affection was when I took a photo of a love letter I’d written to him and sent it over.
“Translate it into French for me. I want to hear you read it out loud. Just this once.”
He didn’t even look at the photo.
“A 2,000-page convention draft is waiting for my approval. Yours can wait.”
Later, I tucked that letter into the very last page of my diary.
Last week, he came back for a work assignment and left his suitcase sitting unopened in the living room. While helping him unpack, I found a waterproof pouch stuffed with printed pages.
Italian. Every page had a handwritten number in the upper right corner, from 001 to 217.
I scanned the first page with a translation app. It was the beginning of a diary.
“March 7. Today I ran into a stray cat at the supermarket…”
The diary was nothing more than the scattered observations of a young woman going about her daily life. Jeremiah had translated each entry into elegant Italian with meticulous care. Tucked into the last page was a printed screenshot of an email he had sent.
“Everything is finished. The PDF and layout files are attached. The hardcover edition will be shipped to your Milan address next week.”
The reply contained a heart emoji and a single sentence: “You’re the best person in the world.”Â
The date was Valentine’s Day last year, the same day he told me he was working late.
I zipped the pouch closed and returned it to exactly where I’d found it. Then I booked a one-way ticket to Paris.
I’d translate that love letter myself, and then read it to myself.
Where My Love Never Reached Chapter 08 He stood in the rain and began reading the letter aloud in French. His pronunciation was still flawless and elegant. But this time, the calm confidence and pride were gone. All that remained was regret and a voice thick with emotion. Rain ran down his face, and it
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Where My Love Never Reached Chapter 07 The next day, as soon as I arrived at the gallery, I saw Jeremiah standing outside the entrance. He was holding a thick document envelope. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his lips were dry and cracked. I didn’t slow down. I walked straight toward the gallery’s glass
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Where My Love Never Reached Chapter 06 Six months later, I had gone from being a gallery assistant to an independent curator. My French had improved dramatically. I no longer needed anyone to translate or proofread for me. I hosted an exhibition titled “Reconstruction” at a gallery near the Champs-Élysées. On opening night, many prominent
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Where My Love Never Reached Chapter 05 I never saw it myself, but later Amelie told me how Jeremiah had practically flown back to the apartment and lost it when he got there. “Gigi, you wouldn’t believe the state that jerk is in right now. He came tearing back home. And the second he saw
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Where My Love Never Reached Chapter 04 Packing took less time than I had expected. I realized there was surprisingly little in the home I’d lived in for five years that actually belonged to me. Most of it belonged to Jeremiah. His books. His suits. His collection of dictionaries in countless languages. I packed my
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Where My Love Never Reached Chapter 03 The next day, I received a call from the gallery owner. “Gigi, we’ve received an authentication authorization document from Paris for an eighteenth-century artwork. It’s packed with specialized Old French terminology. We’ve contacted several translators, but none of them are willing to take it on. Do you think
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Where My Love Never Reached Chapter 02 At seven that evening, a private dining room at the InterContinental Hotel was packed with translators from the Geneva office and their family members. Amelie Everett sat on my left, peeling shrimp. Jeremiah sat on my right. Vanessa Harvey sat across from him. She wore a crisp white
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Where My Love Never Reached Chapter 01 Jeremiah Rowland was the chief translator at an agency based in Geneva. We had been in a long-distance relationship for five years. Every time we video-called, he was revising documents, and the screen behind him was always covered in red and blue edits. The only time I ever
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