Letter to Mizuki-san (After the Sunset)

"Are we to look at cherry blossoms only in full bloom, 

at the moon only when it is cloudless?"

(Yoshida Kenkō, Essays in Idleness)

Libya, 26 July 2026

Dear Mizuki-san.

I begin writing these words only a few minutes after, for the first time, we crossed the threshold of my apartment in Piazza 6 and walked out of it together.

I am writing this on the assumption that there is a strong chance we will never see each other again.

As I have just told you, it is curious that, the first time we leave the house together, could be perhaps also the last time we will ever see each other, as if it no longer mattered whether people knew, whether the security cameras—whoever may have access to them in this everyday Big Brother—might catch sight of us together.
I could never have imagined that, amid the ferocity of mankind, amid the perpetual instability of the Libyan lands, amid the categorical impossibility of escaping a stalemate that is not political but existential, our being together could become a source of hope.

I was afraid of growing attached, even before becoming attached to the idea of you; or of an us, even if only for a fixed term, like our mandates.
And now, that you left and as I walk alone through the apartments of the compound, where diplomats, intelligence officers, traffickers, corrupt politicians, foreign oil majors' employees, and members of international organisations coexist, in this non-place where order is maintained through precarious agreements with ruthless militiamen, where the rule of law is suspended and, when things go wrong, the law of the gun prevails, I fear that the light of you - which had awakened me from the comfortable warmth of cynicism and the monotony of an everyday life to which I was, tragically, becoming accustomed - may never return.
If my calculations are correct, the respective schedules should lead to see each other again in exactly two months and a half, somewhere around the 12th of October.

One part of me wish that you would ask me to see me sooner.
Another part of me wishes never to see you again.

Not out of selfishness, but for exactly the opposite reason. Through your tears, just a little while ago, on my couch - the first stage of our political confessions and clandestine meetings - you asked me to hate you, because it would have made it easier for you to leave behind the idea of me.

That ring you wear on your finger, that ring that torments you - not because of the promise it represents, but because of the future that awaits you - is the destiny you have chosen, far away from this prison.
It is for this reason that, if perhaps, somewhere deep in my heart, I loved you a little, I certainly came to care for you because of the space of tenderness we allowed ourselves, despite the bombs, despite the gossip.
And I, who truly care for you and admire you, can only hope that the destiny awaiting you is everything you have always dreamed of, everything you have always wanted, everything you have always longed for.

Few people can truly understand this place. Trying to untangle the Libyan puzzle through the soft law is one thing; living it, becoming part of it, is another entirely. It makes you feel guilty. It makes you feel complicit. It makes you feel like part of the problem. It is suffocating. It hunts you at night.

You managed to make me forget the darkness, if only for the time we allowed ourselves. And you reminded me that, in the face of injustice and evil, I will never be indifferent. Even though I do not know where I am going, deep in my heart I hope that everything I have learned during this past year and a half will, one day, find its meaning.

I do not know whether you will ever return to these latitudes, and if you do, I do not know whether you will still want to see me as you have until now. But if that day comes, I hope we will discover it together.

As of today though, a little bitterness remains: for having wanted to understand you better; for never truly managing, for some reason, to fully earn your trust; for not having had the chance to see each other outside these walls, to truly live our time together, even if only for a little while - free, away from prying eyes, from our daily responsibilities, from our cumbersome professional titles.

I would have wanted to learn to read your inner world more deeply, to discover more about your culture, to lose ourselves in the labyrinth of Tokyo, where even you admit you do not always know your way. I would have wanted to take you to Venice for the Festa del Redentore. To think that the chance for us to be together in Italy was ruined by a couple of BP employees still fills me with anger.

I will keep close to my heart the moments we spent simply looking into each other's eyes. You staring at me, while nodding and holding my hand, suspended in what felt like an endless moment of waiting.

That Saturday morning we had it whole spent together in bed, our naked bodies wrapped around one another beneath the sheets, the sound of the sea breaking upon the shores of Palm City, and the breeze drifting softly through the curtains.
Thank you for those magical moments, when, for a little while, the world fell away, and there was only us. I wish we could have moved beyond the fear of being discovered and simply enjoyed what we had, naturally, side by side.

I also wish there had been enough space on the Tanzaku you gave me to hang it on the compound tree for Tanabata and to write the words that, for fear of letting the deepest part of myself prevail, would once have seemed premature, but which today reveal themselves to be the right words at exactly the right time.

«To the good and pure souls,to the orphaned hearts, 

to those who fight for a better world, 

to those who truly know how to love, to those who have courage, 

to those who remain kind in adversity,

to those who suffer without losing hope, 

to those who find the strength to leave the harbour

in search of their own horizon, 

even when the sea is frightening. 

May life find you. 

May it recognise you. 

May it give you the strength to dare, 

to dream, 

and may it give back to you 

everything you have given.» 

I do not know whether, years from now, this story will remain only a fleeting chapter in our lives, a memory blurred by time, or whether it will continue to live quietly somewhere within us. I only know that I do not regret having met you, nor having allowed myself to feel what I felt.

In a place where mistrust is a survival instinct, where every gesture is measured, every word weighed, and every tomorrow uncertain, you reminded me that tenderness can still exist. 

You reminded me that even in a place built upon fear, there can still be room for kindness, for silence shared without embarrassment, for hands searching for one another, for the quiet peace of someone else's presence. 

Perhaps this was never meant to become anything more than what it was. 

Perhaps it was always destined to remain suspended in this strange corner of the world, between departures and arrivals, between ceasefires and explosions, between diplomatic cables and airport goodbyes. 

And yet, for the brief time we allowed ourselves, it was real. 

If one day you find what you have always been searching for, I hope you embrace it without looking back. I hope the weight you have carried for so long finally becomes lighter. 

I hope you find a place where you no longer have to wear a mask, where you no longer have to choose between public duty and your own happiness, and where you are finally free to be yourself. 

As for me, I will carry with me the certainty that, for one brief moment in this forgotten corner of the world, our paths crossed. And that alone was enough to remind me that, despite everything, there is still beauty worth searching for in this world. 

I will miss you, Mizuki-san, whether our paths will cross again in two months or never.

Arigato gozaimasu. 
Thank you.
Grazie.