You hear something like this and you remember that all our clever bullshit about mortality is just that, bullshit. Because here’s the obscene truth: they DID have their whole lives ahead of them. They had seven months, which turned out to be the whole lives they were going to get together. That’s the con. The promise wasn’t a lie. It just had terms and conditions nobody read.
A Love Letter from Emilie Blachère to Rémi Ochlik
I’ve never found it so difficult to write. My dictionaries are useless. I can already hear you saying, “Sweet Blachère.” So instead I made a list of everything I loved about you.
My angel, my love:
I loved watching you make me coffee every morning, and after eight months it was actually good!
I loved it when you said you wanted to have two children, a boy and a girl.
I loved it even more when you pestered me in front of our friends about having kids: “Look at Thib, Mat, Fred. Their girls are cool, and they’re pregnant!”
I loved it that you decided you wanted to go to Libya, Nigeria and Burma, then Syria, then Tulles, all within five minutes.
I loved it when you told me, “Blachère, you’re making me childish. I’m becoming like you.”
I loved it when I said that you were the best photographer in the world and you said, “Well, you’re biased.”
I loved to see you blush when I told you I was crazy about you.
I loved our routine, our life together, the nights we’d stay up late watching Dexter.
I loved it how at night you would take out your contact lenses and put on your thick glasses. I’d call you Harry Potter and you hated it.
I loved it when you told me that you didn’t miss me at all.
I loved it when you told me you were jealous of Eric, of Ivan, of Pierre, jealous of everyone, even Marcelle, my cat.
I loved it when you kidnapped Marcelle when I was on assignment so she would get used to your cat, and we could all live together, one happy family.
I loved it when you were scared to meet my mother.
I loved it when you took me to Honfleur, and we stopped on the highway and ate a Mars bar and drank a Coke.
I loved it when you told me, “I’m ugly, Blachère, you’re blinded by love.”
I loved it when you left your toothbrush at my house. I took a picture of it and showed it to my girlfriends. I almost posted it on Facebook.
I loved how you stroked my leg at red lights on your scooter.
I loved it how you held me tight in the morning, then again at night, as if we had been apart for months.
I loved watching you smoke at the window. You were so sexy. But, like you said, I’m biased.
I loved to hear you say to Julien, your best friend, your brother, “Look out — Mama Squirrel’s here,” when I was waking up.
I loved it when you said at first, “Julien’s my wife; you’re my mistress.” After two months it was the opposite. Sorry, Julien.
I loved your timid smile, the way you laughed, your almost feminine delicacy, your juvenile tenderness.
I loved it how you texted me every five minutes to ask me to marry you, with emoticons and all. We promised each other we’d get hitched in Las Vegas.
I loved it how you left me love letters in my notebooks when you came over to feed Marcelle.
I loved your courage, your admiration, your rigour. I’m so proud of you, my angel. I admired you as a photojournalist and as a man. You’ve become so big.
I loved it when you told me: “Blachère, we have our whole lives ahead of us.”
I loved to hear you tell me how everything was going to be all right when I was depressed. If only I could hear you tell me that today.
I loved it so much how on February 10, a Friday, the last time we saw each other, you told me that I made you happy.
Look at that letter. “I loved it when you took me to Honfleur, and we stopped on the highway and ate a Mars bar and drank a Coke.” That’s it. That’s the whole fucking game right there. Not the big moments – the stupid Mars bar on a highway. The toothbrush she almost posted on Facebook like some lovesick kid. The way he stroked her leg at red lights.
You accumulate these tiny moments thinking you’re stockpiling them, building toward something, when really you’re just… spending them. And then the spending stops, and you’re left holding a mangled camera and a box of souvenirs and the sickening knowledge that “our whole lives” turned out to be shorter than most people’s engagements.
He died doing what he loved. People say that like it’s comfort. It’s not. It’s just what happened. He died happy and she’s alive with his destroyed camera next to her bed. Tell me which one got the better deal.