Love, Isidor

By Nell Iris

Dear Henri, there was a man at the restaurant this evening who looked so much like you that I winked at him and laughed.

One letter from his ex, Isidor, is all it takes to turn Henri’s world upside down. It’s been a decade since they broke up, a decade since they couldn’t make their long-distance relationship work despite their best efforts.

Do you ever think back on the decisions we made and wonder if we could’ve tried harder?

Isidor was the one that got away, the one who’s impossible to forget, and Henri still questions the decisions they made back then. Could they have fought harder for what they had?

My darling Henri. I still dream of you after all this time.

Is ten years apart too long, or will old feelings reignite when Henri and Isidor meet again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Sep 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685505356

Nell Iris

Nell is a forty-something bisexual Swedish woman, married to the love of her life, and a proud mama of a grown daughter. She left the Scandinavian cold and darkness for warmer and sunnier Malaysia a few years ago, and now spends her days writing, surfing the Internet, enjoying the heat, and eating good food. One day she decided to chase her lifelong dream of being a writer, sat down in front of her laptop, and wrote a story about two men falling in love. Nell writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angst, and wants to write diverse and different characters.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I recognize his handwriting immediately, the exaggerated loops, the flamboyance, the indents in the paper because of his heavy hand. The envelope is creamy and thick and its texture reminds me of linen as I run my finger across my name. Henri Björlin.

He always rolled on the R and over-enunciated the finishing I in my name to make sure no one thought it was spelled with a Y like a plebeian. Kiss me, Henrrrrri, he would whisper in my ear, his breath hot and voice rumbly. My knees go weak at the memory, and I almost fall, landing hard on my ass on a kitchen chair.

It’s been years since we last spoke, years since we realized we’d never be able to make our long-distance relationship work no matter how hard we tried.

We’d made plans to move together; he’d only come to Lund temporarily for a master’s program but would go back home to Uppsala, close to seven hundred kilometers away, when he’d graduated, to do his doctorate. I would follow him across the country; I’d easily find a job—electricians are needed everywhere—leave Lund behind, and we’d live happily ever after.

Then my dad died unexpectedly, leaving my mother heartbroken and devastated and unable to function, and I couldn’t move away from her.

So we made new plans, determined to make a long-distance relationship work; cell phones and the Internet would make it easy for us to keep in touch, and we swore we’d always prioritize and make time for each other. Our intentions were sincere, and we both tried our hardest for a long time before we saw no other way than to give up and call it quits.

Our lives were too busy, too hectic writing a thesis (him) and learning to run my father’s company (me), and we could barely find the time to text or talk on the phone, much less visit, even though we desperately wanted to see each other.

In the end, we parted amicably. After one last night together, after hundreds of tender kisses, we said goodbye. Stoically, with sad smiles and touches lingering for as long as possible, but had I been the type to cry, I would’ve gone straight home and bawled my eyes out.

Instead, I allowed myself to go out one night and get roaring drunk, but after that, I threw myself into the company, my dad’s small but successful electrical business, growing it from two people—my dad and a part-time employee—to thirty. But work wasn’t enough to distract me from thoughts of him; I desperately needed to keep my hands and my mind busy, so I bought an old house in dire need of renovations that I’ve spent five years or so making into my dream home.

Ten years. It’s been ten years since we kissed each other goodbye. Why is he writing to me now?

He always preferred to write real letters instead of emailing; he wasn’t a fan of what he called the new digital era as though he was born in the nineteenth century, and still doesn’t have a social media presence, or at least he hadn’t the last time I allowed myself to look him up. Writing letters, using pen and paper, is more personal, Henri, more intimate, he said once when I complained because his letters took too long to reach me compared to my email replies. When you receive it, you’ll know I took time to sit down and write to you, that I couldn’t stop thinking about you.

I never complained about the lack of emails again after that.

But why now? After so long? Did something happen to him? Is he sick?

Is it a wedding invitation?

Suddenly, I can’t breathe, I can’t wait another second to read what he’s written, even if it’ll break my heart.

Because I never got over him; he was the one that got away. And while I don’t want to see him alone and miserable, I won’t be able to watch him get married to someone else. I couldn’t take seeing him look at someone else like he used to look at me, like I was the best thing in the known universe, like I was more necessary than the air that he breathed.

I want him to be happy, but I couldn’t do that to myself. If it’s a wedding invitation, I’ll politely decline, wish him all the best, send him a gift, then get even more drunk than I did the day after we’d said our goodbyes.

I grab a knife from the kitchen drawer and open the envelope. Inside is a thick sheet of folded