[March 3rd, 1939]
I am not certain why I have decided to write like this. Perhaps it is because there are things I find easier to put into words when no one is there to hear them.
I was introduced to her not long ago.
At the time, I had already been making a name for myself among other musicians. Nothing grand, nothing worth much attention from the public—but enough that my work was known in certain circles. I had plans, too. Plans to leave this place, to go elsewhere and pursue something greater with my music.
Then I met her, Margo.
She was already rising—no, more than that. She was seen. Her voice carried something I cannot quite describe, something that seemed to linger even after the music ended. And, of course, there is her beauty. It would be a lie to say it goes unnoticed. Anyone with eyes could see why people are drawn to her.
But I have never been the sort to fall for appearances alone.
When I first met her, I treated her as I would anyone else. Perhaps that was why I was not disappointed.
I had expected someone difficult. Someone distant, perhaps even arrogant—someone accustomed to admiration and therefore careless with it. That is what people said of those in her position.
I was wrong.
She was… kind. Quiet, in a way that did not demand attention, yet somehow held it regardless. She spoke only when necessary, but never without thought. She listened. To the music, to suggestions, to the smallest details others might overlook.
It surprised me.
She did not seem interested in being admired. She seemed interested in the work itself.
There is something else about her, though I cannot name it properly. It is as if she reveals herself, and yet at the same time, she does not. As if there is always a part of her just beyond reach. I do not know if this is intentional, or simply who she is.
Working with her has been… easy.
Easier than I expected, certainly. We think similarly when it comes to music. We care about the same things. We argue, at times, but never without purpose. It feels less like compromise and more like refinement.
Before long, I found myself at ease in her presence.
That, more than anything, unsettles me.
I had intended to leave soon.
Now, I find myself wondering if I truly will.
[May 22nd, 1939]
Some time has passed since I first met Margo.
I have grown… comfortable around her...
It is a strange thing to admit. I had not expected it. Yet somewhere along the way, our conversations became lighter. Easier. We began to speak not only of music, but of trivial things. Small stories, passing thoughts, things that hold no real importance and yet feel significant in the moment.
She laughs, at times...
It is not something I imagined when I first met her.
Others see her as composed, elegant—something distant, almost untouchable. But there are moments, brief and unguarded, where she laughs freely. I find that I remember those moments more than I should.
We have begun to spend time together outside of work.
Nothing remarkable. Coffee, occasionally. A visit to a bookshop. Even then, we often return to music, as if it is the one place we both understand without effort.
Still, there are moments where we drift from it, and in those moments, I feel as though I am seeing something I was not meant to.
It would be simplest to say we have become friends.
And yet… I am no longer certain that is all this is...
I do not wish to mistake my feelings. Nor do I wish for anyone, least of all her, to think that what I feel is something shallow. It is not her beauty, though I would be lying if I said it did not exist. It is something else. The way she thinks. The way she listens. The way she seems to exist both within reach and impossibly far at the same time.
It is her.
That is all...
For some time, I chose to ignore it. It seemed the wiser thing to do. But the more time I spend in her presence, the more difficult that becomes.
There are moments (small, quiet moments) where she seems different. Less guarded. Less… distant. In those moments, she does not feel like the person others see on stage. She feels… closer. Human, in a way that makes it difficult to look away.
I find myself wondering if she is aware of it.
Or if I am simply imagining what I wish to see.
I was meant to leave soon.
That had always been the plan. To go elsewhere, to pursue something greater. I told myself that this place was temporary.
Now, I am no longer certain.
I have spent the past week unable to think of anything else...
I have spoken to others, though I have not told them everything. There are things I cannot quite bring myself to say aloud.
[May 29th, 1939]
I was meant to leave yesterday.
I did not go.
I remained.
I told myself it was for the music. That I wished to continue writing, to hear my work carried by someone capable of giving it life in ways I cannot. That much is true.
But it is not the whole truth...
When I saw her again, she seemed surprised.
She asked why I had stayed.
I could not answer her. Not honestly. Not yet.
Instead, I told her that I enjoyed writing for her. That I valued seeing my music performed by someone of her talent.
It was, perhaps, a coward's answer...
She seemed… flustered, in a way I had not seen before. She said she did not know if it was the right decision, nor if she could live up to such expectations. Yet she accepted it. She said she would do her best.
I do not know if she understood what I meant.
Part of me hopes that she did.
And part of me is relieved that she may not have.