[August 16th, 1939]
This has gone on longer than I care to admit.
I have lived in a state of uncertainty for what feels like an endless stretch of time. Wondering, questioning, hoping, and then doubting all over again.
There are days where I convince myself there may be something more, something unspoken between us.
And there are nights where I am certain there is nothing at all.
It is… exhausting.
I have asked myself countless times whether there is hope. Whether she feels even a fraction of what I do. Whether I am simply holding onto something that was never there to begin with.
I have found no answer.
And so, at last, I have come to a decision.
If I cannot understand her heart, then I will at least make mine known. Fully, without restraint, without leaving anything unsaid.
Tonight, I wrote.
Not as I usually do. Not for performance, not for refinement, not with any thought of audience or expectation.
I wrote what I could not say.
Every thought I have buried, every feeling I have tried to silence, every question that has remained unanswered. I placed them all into a single piece.
—
Silent nights I dream of you
I picture us together
But I kept wondering
Am I in your dreams too?
In my heart your name is engraved
Love longs to meet each other
Yet I kept wondering
Am I in your heart?
I have sung my melody
I have whispered my remedy
I have abandoned my dreams and wishes
Yet why can't i touch your heart
If only you were belong to me
I'll give you everything
Yet still why can't I touch your heart
I can't stop wondering
Am I even in your heart?
Can't you just listen to me a little?
Listen to my symphony
Symphony only for you
—
It is imperfect.
But it is honest.
When it was finished, I brought it to her.
I did not play it.
I did not explain it.
I simply handed her the pages, lyrics and chords, and told her that this… this is the truth of what I feel.
And that I need an answer.
Then I left.
I could not remain there. I could not stand before her and watch as she read it. Whatever answer she may have, I do not think I would have been able to bear it in that moment.
So I left her alone with it.
Perhaps that, too, was cowardice.
But it is done.
There is nothing left for me to hide now.
Whatever answer comes, I will have to accept it.
[September 28th, 1939]
After I gave her the song, I did not see her again.
I made no attempt to.
I did not write, did not visit, did not ask for an answer. Though I had claimed that was what I wanted. In truth, I do not know if I was avoiding her answer, or simply delaying what I already feared I knew.
Weeks had passed.
I heard nothing from her.
It was not until one of our acquaintances came to see me that I learned anything at all.
He brought with him the finished record. He spoke of the recording... of how she had accepted the song as her next single, of how unusual it was that I had not been present.
I offered him no explanation.
I simply took the record.
I have not listened to it.
I do not know if I ever will.