April 21st, 1943

To my Dearest Helen,

I love you. I don’t know when, or even if, I’ll be able to see you again, and with each passing day that we spend apart I think about the fact that even if I did see you again, I wouldn’t be able to live as who I truly am. And who I am is someone who lives to love you, not as a friend or as a sister, but in the rawest, truest sense of the word. I live to be your lover. And yet, even if I were given the chance to see you again, the world would never be so kind as to let that be my reality.

You left three weeks ago, and as happy as I am that your family has evacuated to somewhere safer than London, I miss you terribly. Everyday I write you a letter, each time addressed to ‘Henry Lloyd’, the man my parents assume to be my boyfriend in the army. The one I’m eternally dedicated to, yet they never question how they’ve never heard of the man, much less met him. They seem to simply be grateful that I’ve grown out of my queerish tendencies. Imagine if they discovered the truth. But I’m tired of keeping up appearances. I don’t know how much longer I can take being estranged from you, how much longer this heavens-forsaken war will last.

Last time you wrote me, you said your parents had arranged for your union, to make things easier on them by marrying you off to some businessman. “One less mouth to feed,” you said. You asked for my advice, and as much as I want to urge you to refuse, to reject the old geezer, at least you would lead a comfortable life with him. Three children and a dog, white picket fence and all. The only thing I want in this life is your happiness and safety, even if I can’t grant you that myself. But if I can’t show the world how much I truly love you, I want to at least be able to tell you. As Helen, not Henry.

Helen, I love you more than I could possibly put into words. I love you more than the distance between the Earth and its moon, more than you or anyone could ever imagine. I don’t ever want to forget you, even if circumstances drive us apart. And I pray to whatever entity presides in the heavens above that you won’t forget me either. It may seem a little cliched, but you bring out that side of me. Which is why, enclosed with this letter is a forget-me-not bracelet. The kind of bracelet prematurely-grieving wives give to their war-bound husbands. Because if I am to lose you, I would at least want you to remember me in some way. I hope you appreciate the gesture, Helen, and keep me in your heart, even as you move on with your life.

Forget-me-not Helen,

Love, Dorothy