Chapter Text
Loin des yeux, près du cœur
Moi qui voulais t'aimer,
Tendre objet de mes vœux ;
Comment pourrais-je avouer,
Que je suis amoureux ?
Quelle est cette souffrance ?
Vers toi mon cœur s’élance,
Cette romance est vaine,
Et bien plus qu’incertaine.
Loin des yeux, près du cœur,
Car malgré la distance,
C’est à toi que je pense,
Mon amie et ma sœur.
Le prix de ma constance,
En est la récompense,
Car malgré la souffrance,
Vers toi mon cœur s’élance.’
- François Sauvageot
Far from the eyes, close to the heart
I who wanted to love you,
Tender object of my wishes;
How could I confess,
That I am in love?
What is this suffering?
Towards you my heart rushes,
This romance is vain,
And much more than uncertain.
Far from the eyes, close to the heart,
Because despite the distance,
It is of you that I think,
My friend and my sister.
The price of my constancy,
Is the reward,
Because despite the suffering,
Towards you my heart rushes.
- François Sauvageot
What is the difference between leaving because you have to, and leaving because it’s all you know how to do?
I’ve always been a leaver. The moment something feels even slightly off, my mind fires off warning flares, sounding the alarm that it’s time to go. The tricky part is, those alarms don’t discriminate - they can ring out because of sharp words that sting deeper than expected, because of growing distance that feels insurmountable, or because someone’s cruelty shoves me away like a kicked dog.
But here’s the paradox: tenderness can trigger the same flight. A gesture of kindness that feels too foreign, a kiss that’s way too tender, a touch that lingers too long and makes me want to retreat into the safety of solitude.
So, I ask myself - what is it? Is it self-preservation, a sense of self-respect, or just fear disguised as self-protection?
How do we really know when to leave?
I, the author, wouldn’t be able to give you that answer.
I’m good at running. At picking every little piece I’ve given to someone, packing them up and disappearing without a trace. Smiles turn cold at a moment’s notice, like shutters snapping closed, and it starts to seem like I never gave anything of myself at all. It becomes easy to believe I never cared, never felt, never truly stayed.
But what is far from the eyes, stays close to the heart.
“Loin des yeux, près du cœur” - far from the eyes, close to the heart. It’s a lovely expression, one that romanticizes the quiet ache of absence. Where I come from, we say it differently, less poetically but just as true: “Lo que no se va en lágrimas se va en suspiros” - what we don’t release in tears, we release in sighs. It’s a reminder that even if our grief or our longing isn’t outwardly dramatic, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t weigh on us all the same. One way or another, pain finds its expression.
This story you’re about to read - or perhaps are already reading - is born from that very idea. It’s a reflection of how the wounds we carry from our past don’t simply fade; they etch themselves into our everyday lives, manifesting in ways we don’t always recognize. It’s about how, even when we’ve run from the hurt, it never really leaves us.
But there’s something else I’ve learned while writing this story - something I hope you’ll come to feel too. Even after all the running, after all the fear and the leaving, there's still better things waiting for us. There's hope, there is healing, and there is the chance to stay, no matter how many times we’ve left before.
With love,
Vita.