There was tension in the air as the summer ended, and neither man wanted to talk about it. Samuel became more introverted and erratic. His poetry became jagged, filled with anger and longing. As if trying to keep up with himself, Thomas got out of bed early and walked miles across the countryside. The following night, Eleanor brought back a book Samuel had loaned her, a collection of poems by Rilke. On the garden path, she gave it to him with a look that appeared to be both grateful and resigned. "I'm grateful, Samuel. I should have returned this sooner. He examined her. "You're leaving, aren't you?"
She looked past him. "I haven't decided yet."
He nodded slowly. "You do not need to make a decision right now. Just... don't go without saying goodbye."
The words lingered between them, and then she turned back into her house.
Thomas wrote Eleanor a letter that evening. Need rather than strategy. Instead of writing as a rival, he wrote as a man who had been grieving for a long time. He told her about Margaret, the son he couldn't reach, and the ache he hadn't been able to express before. He never sent it.