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 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.” 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.
***
I sat on the living room rug and opened my diary to the last page. The thin sheet of stationery had yellowed with age.
Five years ago, when I wrote those words, my mind had been filled with images of Jeremiah standing beside Lake Geneva.
The study door opened. Jeremiah stepped out, holding a coffee mug, a slight frown on his face.
“Why’s the coffee machine empty?”
“I didn’t refill it.”
I folded the letter and slipped it back into the diary. He walked over and glanced at the notebook in my hands.
“Why didn’t you go to the gallery today?”
“I took the day off.”
He didn’t ask any more questions. His eyes lingered on the diary.
“You still keep things from five years ago.”
“Yeah.”
“Georgina, you need to move forward. Stop dwelling on sentimental things.”
He took a sip of water and headed toward the kitchen. I watched him walk away. “Jeremiah.”
He stopped and looked back. I continued, “That 2,000-page convention draft. Did you ever finish signing off on it?”
He paused, clearly caught off guard.
“Of course. That was last year’s project.”
“Oh.” I stood and brushed the dust from my skirt. “Did you sign it on Valentine’s Day last year?”
His expression immediately hardened.
“What are you trying to say?”
“Nothing. Just curious.”
“Georgina, I’m only back for two weeks. I have a lot of internal meetings to attend.” He set the mug down heavily on the kitchen island. “If you’re looking for a fight, pick another time.”
“I’m not.” I picked up my phone from the sofa. “I was just wondering how long it takes to format a two-hundred-page diary in Italian.”
Jeremiah stared at me.
“You went through my suitcase?”
“I was helping you unpack. The pouch fell out.”
“That was part of a colleague’s project handoff.”
“A project handoff?” I laughed. “What kind of international convention starts with someone meeting a stray cat at a supermarket?”
A flash of irritation crossed his face.
“Those belonged to Vanessa’s language training materials.”
“Language training?”
“She’s a junior translator we’re mentoring. Italian is her weakest language.” His voice returned to its usual calm tone, carrying a hint of condescension. “As chief translator, helping her develop language intuition is part of my job.”
“Using her private diary?”
“The more authentic the material, the more natural the language learning.” He looked at me as though I were an unreasonable employee. “Georgina, you’re not in this field. You don’t understand this kind of intensive training.”
“I don’t.” I nodded. “So you didn’t have time to read a single line of my love letter, but you had time to stay up all night on Valentine’s Day designing a hardcover edition for her.”
“That was the final stage of a project.” His voice sharpened. “Vanessa was flying to Milan for a summit the next day. Those materials were extremely important.”
“More important than Valentine’s Day after five years of long distance?”
“Work isn’t a game.”
He brought out those words again. For five years, they had crushed every expectation I ever had.
When I was sick with a fever, he said work wasn’t a game, so I went to the hospital alone. When it was my birthday, here it came again, so I bought my own cake and celebrated by myself.
I believed him for five years. Until I saw that beautifully bound, 217-page Italian diary.
A phone rang. Jeremiah glanced at the screen and answered immediately.
“Vee.” He walked toward the balcony, his voice instinctively softening. “I emailed you the declensions. Right, pay attention to your tongue placement when you pronounce them. Okay. See you at dinner tonight.”
He ended the call and returned to the living room.
“The team’s having a gathering tonight. Come with me.”
“No.”
“Georgina, stop being difficult.” He frowned. “My colleagues all know my fiancée is here. If you don’t come, what will they think?”
“What people think of you matters more than how I feel?”
“Can you be reasonable for once?” He sighed and pulled a shirt from the closet. “Seven o’clock. Amelie will be there too. Get ready.”
Without waiting for an answer, he walked straight into the bathroom.
I looked at the jacket he’d tossed onto the sofa. A faint woody fragrance lingered on the collar. It wasn’t mine.
I picked up my phone and opened the airline app.
One-way ticket to Paris. Confirmed.