You still do not write, and I grow more wretched with your silence every day. All around me I hear girls chattering in French and I feel like I am walking in a dream. I fear that nothing but the sound of your dear voice will wake me. I grow further and further from solid ground every day.
I am a little drunk tonight, I think. Perhaps I shouldn’t write in such a state. But I am drunk most days now. I forget why I should not be. You would be so cross and disappointed if you could see how miserable I have become. I deserve you less and less; I suppose this is all my own doing. I do not know how to change it. I want to go back somehow and begin again. Far enough back, darling, that you are lying in my arms, in that tiny room of yours, with the fire shining on your hair.
I have the picture I made of you that morning, do you remember? You wanted me to burn it, but I carry it with me everywhere. I sit up at night and gaze at it, uselessly willing it to turn from paper into your own dear flesh, sweetest girl.
What a dreadful letter this is. How could you love someone who would write such a letter? How could I ask you to? I am a fool Sophie, but your own fool. If it matters to you at all, I am still not painting. There is no reason to do anything anymore.
I am so sorry for this awful letter.
But my love is ever and only yours,