So I started to write her letters. I told her not to write me back because there’s no way someone wouldn’t find it but instead she would text me her thoughts and feelings. Our conversations were always delayed but at least I was able to get out to her what I was feeling.

And I was feeling a lot. More than I imagined I could. It wasn’t just her that I was missing, (needing, craving) either. I talked a lot about my job and Alex and my parents and everything I needed to express because she was the only one I felt who really understands me.

Lately though, I haven’t had the time to send her anything and in response, she hasn’t texted either. I know long distance relationships are hard–hell, I don’t even know if what we had or have can be considered a relationship–but I think it’s something worth fighting for.

I just haven’t figured out how to fight for it.

“What letters?” Freddie repeats.

“There was a girl. I wrote her letters.”

“What was her name?” he sounds genuinely curious.

“Maggie,” I tell him. “Maggie Mayhem McPherson.”

“Pardon me for asking, but was she by any chance a stripper?”

I glare at him.

He gives me a small smile. “The name, you see.”

“She was definitely not a stripper,” I tell him. “She was very real. Got handed a terrible hand in life, so yes, I could also see with a name like that and her background, stripping seems like a viable option. But no. She’s one of the hardest working, strongest people I know.”

“She hasn’t come to visit,” Freddie points out. “Or has she?”

I shake my head. “No. It’s just not possible.” I really don’t want to get into Maggie’s history with him, but I think it’s the only way he’ll understand that she’s not like everyone else. “She’s twenty-three, from a town you’ve never heard of. Her parents died, were murdered actually, a year or two ago and she’s been the legal guardian of her five siblings ever since. Works as a maid to make ends meet.”

For once, Freddie looks impressed. “Wow.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I mean, that’s how she won me over at first. I was just…fucking impressed.”

“You sure it wasn’t her looks?”

“I never said she was hot.”

“Sir, I am betting she’s hot.”

I can’t help the stupid smile spreading across my face. I look away. “She’s beautiful.”

“Of course.”

“But the more I talked to her, the more I got to know her…in many different ways…the more I realized how alike we were.”

“Well I must say it sounds like a shame I can’t meet her.”

“Yes, it is,” I say with a sigh, staring out the window. If Maggie were here, would she even like Stockholm? It’s dark now, as sin, and the forecast tonight calls for snow. Even though it’s the end of November and technically autumn, it’s been cold as fuck and it’s only going to get worse. Sweden is a far cry from California.

By the time the car takes me back to Haga Palace, I’m tired and climb the three floors up to my bedroom to retire early. It’s a far cry from the palatial apartment I had before. The apartment, though it consisted of the entire top floor of one of Stockholm’s grandest buildings, was very private and rather homey. I had Freddie down the hall in his own apartment, as well as guards and my butler, Bodi, in theirs.

But while I was away in America, my parents decided to have me moved, unbeknownst to me. It’s a fucking shock when you get off a plane, dealing with no sleep, jetlag, and a broken heart, to discover that you no longer live where you thought you lived and all of your belongings have been moved elsewhere.

I know Haga Palace is the place where Swedish nobility live and raise their families, but because neither Alex nor I have families, we were able to live in apartments downtown. I don’t know if moving me here is a hint for me to hurry up and start a family (that seemed to be on the journalist and Freddie’s mind too), or, after Alex, they just want to keep an eye on me, but this is the place to do it.

It’s just too big for me, too formal. Rooms after rooms after rooms. There are chefs and maids and butlers and Freddie and Stig, my PR person, and guards and more. The estate stretches on and on and I swear the furnishings came with the place when it was built in 1802. It’s vastly impersonal and though it’s still in Stockholm proper, it’s in a park outside all the action.

Which is another thing I’m still having a hard time coming to terms with that comes with the new territory. Before this, I was able to do what I pleased, and no one cared much. Not that I was out a lot, but I liked the freedom. Now, I can’t. I can’t even leave this place without being driven out and the number of guards and secret police around 24/7 has doubled.

Of course it’s selfish of me to lament such a change, the loss of my freedom, when it’s all because the loss of my brother. It’s his loss that always weighs on me more. It’s his loss that always will.

It’s only been eight months or so since he died.

Most days I’m too busy to grieve and then I think that maybe I’ve moved past it and I’m going to be okay. I think to myself “I didn’t think about Alex today” or “I thought about him and I didn’t feel that razor kick to the gut” and then I both feel like I’m finally pulling myself out of this spiral while at the same time feeling guilty for not thinking about him.

But there is no one way out of this.

One day you might feel fine.

Other days you’re reaching for some brandy, reaching for a pill to make you sleep.

Reaching for Maggie.

How could it be that I was only with her for a week when I swear I was with her for a lifetime?

How come having her in my bed for three nights felt like she’d be in my bed forever?

Why is it that I felt more alive with her than I did in all my days before we met?

There’s a weariness that strikes me this time of night, when my thoughts turn to her and all we could have had. If only I had tried harder to convince her to come to Sweden, if only it was a plan from the start and not something I impulsively blurted at the airport.

But I know that’s not how any of this works.

That’s not how love works.

It’s not something you plan.

Love is mercurial and goes where it wants, when it wants.

It’s not something you choose.

Love is something that happens.

Like an accident or a stroke of fate.

It happens to you whether you want it to or not.

It happened to me and I’ve spent a long time grappling with what I was truly feeling for her. I didn’t believe it was possible to feel what I did. I didn’t believe in a lot of things before I met her.

In the end, I didn’t want to debate myself anymore.

I gave in.

I accepted it.

And here I am. Lonely as hell, holed up in a room at the top of a palace, trying to wrestle with so many demons I don’t know which one to tackle first but I know now, after so much time, in the deepest seat of my heart, that I love her.

I still love her.

And there’s just no fucking cure for that.

So I have a glass of brandy, pour myself another, and I sit down at my desk and I pick up my pen and I write.

* * *

Dearest Maggie, Miss America, Margaret Mayhem,

* * *

I was going to start this letter by calling you mitt min lilla persika but I decided that it might be inappropriate since I can’t see your beautiful face in front of me right now, and I’m not sure if those peach-like lips would smile or not.

I’ve been missing you lately. I miss you all the time but as it gets so cold and dark here and winter approaches, I’m dreaming of sunny California and your wonderful laugh. I know I’m not a comedian but when I was with you, it was a game to me to try and make you laugh as often as I could. Maybe game is the wrong word–it was a challenge. When you smiled, when you laughed, it was like the sun was shining straight out of my heart. It’s like I found the angels inside of you, devils too, an interesting mix when you think about it, but all the best people are interesting mixes. It’s like going to a party and seeing people with wings and people with horns and you think to yourself, damn this is going to be a good one.

I’m probably not making much sense so please pardon me. I’m drinking brandy and I’ve had a hell of a day. What was it that you say in California? Hella?

I’ve never felt so alone as I do now.

I just had to write that down.

I want to talk about Alex with people, but I can’t.

I want to talk about you with people, and I can’t.

You were the only one to really understand me.

I don’t really think you have any idea of what you did to me, do you?

I’m not sure you ever will.

Words aren’t enough.

I have to show you.

If only you could come here. You will grow to love pickled herring, I promise you.

Everyone is so boring.

So proper.

Being a prince is the loneliest job.

Or maybe that’s not true.

Maybe it’s just lonely being Viktor.

Sometimes I imagine you beside me when I go to the balls and galas and dinner parties and other places I’m carted off to each day and night. I pretend you’re there, like a ghost that only I can see. I can almost hear your voice as you comment on what people are wearing and try the appetizers being passed around. I know you look beautiful in your gown, and if people could see you, they’d wonder how I got to be so lucky.

I am so so lucky to have known you.

Been with you.

And I refuse to think that our luck has run out.

I always said I’d come back for you.

I hope you’re not wondering why I haven’t.

I’m not sure why I haven’t.

I’m going to have some more brandy now.

* * *

Alltid mer, aldrig mindre,

(always more, never less)