"there were jean-michel basquiat and andy warhol, sally mann and cy twombly, paul gauguin and vincent van gogh, helen frankenthaler and grace hartigan, edgar degas and édouard manet. friends, yes, but tragedies too. they were close but painfully critical, and many of them grew apart."
books read in 2025: voice like a hyacinth by mallory pearson
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“i was terrified of possibility: how untethered and expansive it was, how there seemed to be no limit to our belief in the potential of magic. i was afraid that this was a precipice we could not walk back from.”
"I am crowded by your absence." — Mallory Pearson, The Heaviest Rain We Ever Had
Mr. Darcy's POV
The fire crackled softly in the dimly lit study of Pemberley, casting flickering shadows on the walls. I, Fitzwilliam Darcy, stood before the grand window, staring into the cold, unforgiving darkness outside as my thoughts lay elsewhere, entangled in memories that I could never seem to cast aside.
It had been years since you left. Years since we had last exchanged a glance, a word. And yet, here I was, haunted by your absence as if no time had passed at all. Every attempt to move forward, every effort to forget, had been in vain. Your laughter still echoed in the halls of my mind, your smile still lingered in the depths of my heart. What was it about you that had bound me so completely?
I had loved before—or so I thought. But none of them were you. None could ever be you. And it was this truth, this inescapable reality, that plagued me.
I turned from the window and ran a hand through my hair, a sigh escaping my lips. My love for you had always been quiet, restrained, the love of a man who felt too deeply to express it fully. But in your presence, I had been rendered vulnerable, utterly powerless against the force of my own heart.
I remembered the first time I saw you—how you had walked into my life with such grace, such ease, and with a single glance, you had captured me. At first, I thought it was a fleeting, boyish love, that with time the infatuation would fade. But as the months passed, the feelings only deepened, until I realized that my heart was no longer my own.
“What if I never forget you?” I whispered to the empty room, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. “What if, all my life, when I meet someone new, I can never fall for them because they aren’t you?”
It was a thought that had plagued me since the day you left. I had tried—oh, how I had tried—to forget. To bury the memory of you beneath layers of duty, of responsibility, of propriety. But no matter how far I travelled, no matter how much time passed, you remained at the forefront of my mind.
There had been others—women who were beautiful, charming, well-suited to a man of my station. But none of them had stirred my heart as you had. None of them had made me feel as though the very ground beneath me shifted when they entered the room. I had tried to convince myself that they would suffice, that with time, I might grow to love them, as one grows accustomed to a comfortable pair of gloves. But the truth was always there, lurking in the shadows: they were not you.
How could they be?
You were my first love—the woman who had taught me what it was to truly care for someone, to ache with the knowledge that I would never be enough to keep you by my side. And though I had tried to deny it, to push the feelings away, they had only grown stronger with each passing year.
My chest tightened as I thought of the life I might have had, had things been different. Had I spoken sooner, had I been braver, more honest about the depths of my feelings. But I had been a fool, too proud and too cautious to reveal my heart. By the time I had realized the magnitude of my mistake, it was too late. You were gone.
I sat down at the desk, resting my head in my hands. The silence of the room pressed down on me, a weight I could not shake. How many times had I imagined this moment—sitting alone, thinking of you, wondering what might have been? And yet, every time, the pain was just as sharp, the longing just as unbearable.
I had heard you had married. The news had come to me in the form of a letter from an old acquaintance, and I had read it with a heart so heavy it felt as though it might shatter within my chest. The thought of another man holding you, loving you, had been almost too much to bear. I had torn the letter to shreds, unable to face the reality of it.
And still, the question remained: what if I never forget you? What if, even now, with the years between us and the life you had built, I still loved you? What if the rest of my life was spent in the shadow of that love, unable to move on, unable to truly give my heart to anyone else?
I rose from the desk and crossed the room, the weight of the memories bearing down on me like a storm cloud. It was not fair—not to the women I had met since, not to the future I was supposed to build. But the heart was a fickle thing, and mine had made its choice long ago.
I could hear the faint sounds of Pemberley in the distance—the servants going about their evening duties, the crackle of the fire in the hearth. But none of it could reach me, not when my mind was consumed with thoughts of you.
The door creaked open, and I turned, startled by the interruption. It was Mrs. Reynolds, my trusted housekeeper, her eyes full of concern.
“Master Darcy,” she said softly. “Is everything all right?”
I nodded, though the lie felt hollow in my throat. “Yes, Mrs. Reynolds. Everything is as it should be.”
She hesitated for a moment, then inclined her head and withdrew, leaving me once again in the silence of the room. I stared after her for a moment, then returned to the window, my hands clasped behind my back.
The night stretched out before me, endless and unforgiving. And as I stood there, lost in my thoughts, I knew that no matter how hard I tried, I would never forget you. You were the love of my youth, the woman who had captured my heart so completely that even time itself could not erase your memory.
And so, I would carry this love with me, silent and unspoken, for the rest of my days. For what was left, after all, but the ghost of a love that could never be?
When posed as an antagonist, Baba Yaga with her wild femininity is undeniably a representation of consequence in folklore. But I found her actions justified, seen in the clear correlation between her cruelty and her hunger, her hate and her desire. Regarding villains like Baba Yaga, Machado writes in her memoir, “They live in a world that hates them. They’ve adapted; they’ve learned to conceal themselves. They’ve survived.”
