I must admit it has been a while since I ever write. I also must admit it's been a while since I ever loved, my dear. The pages have been blank and wet from tears and blood from many enemies I might dare to call my own monsters or my own sons. The white pages scream to me as I stare at them blankly and full of sorrow, regret and hatred. Why am I back at this place? And I can't help to admit there is another bug bothering my cheek this time and it's making me loose concentration from what I should be writing about, or perhaps it is my own self that does not want to accept I may (or may not) have found love, but this is something you can't tell him, my dear. His hands were not visible the day he confessed what mostly seemed like a sin to him, to say he had liked the way my feet crossed the classroom floor since the day he first saw me walking down the painful isle of college. His eyes are almost always shaped as hearts and he almost always says I'm perfect, to which I always reply with an "I'm not, but thanks". I think he hasn't got the idea of me being perfect is like him not being the sweetest person to have ever stepped on this planet. My heart sometimes skips a beat when my phone rings and it is not him, but you cannot tell him, my dear. I have a weird sensation in my chest, something I have never experienced before. And I can find the words to explain how utterly beautiful he makes me feel and this is also something you cannot tell him, my dear. My past loves have not been as wonderful as him and this has left a tone of resentment in my chest, which is waiting for him to leave.

Please tell him to never do, my dear.