The Romantic was coming to terms with the fact that whatever she had (or thought she had) with the Philosopher was over. She wasn’t ready to accept it just yet, but she was acknowledging it at least.
She just had so many questions.
Why did he establish a mode of communication between them only to excommunicate her? Was she not devout enough? Why didn’t he remember their plans? Why didn’t he apologize? Why did she mean so little to him after all this? Why did he sign off his letter by asking how she was?
How are you? he had signed off.
Not “yours”, “sincerely”, “truly”, or even “with love”. Just a question that begged an answer.
But what sort of answer did that question warrant?
Was he asking how she was feeling?
Sad, wistful, full of longing… sporadically happy…
Was he asking how she came to be?
I loved and lost and loved and lost and loved and lost again…
Was he questioning her skill level?
I’m competent but I can always improve.
How was she?
As a lover? A friend? An enemy? Accomplice?
Of course she knew that she may never get the answers to her questions, or even know the correct answer to his; but she was always a girl who hoped for hopeless things.
The heart of the matter was the fact that the Romantic did not know the Philosopher well at all. She had just wanted the chance to. Maybe if she really knew him she wouldn’t be so confused; didn’t they say that knowledge was power? All she knew was the idea of him and the way he treated her did not correlate to what she believed. This was why the Romantic was confused, this was the hard truth she was just not ready to acknowledge.
Because as long as the data was inconclusive, there was a chance, a chance (!!!) that he could still be who she hoped he was.