These are just random fictionalized thoughts which may or may not possess some truth in them
😆
There was a slight pause between the words glaring at him from the page, and his voice: 'With love..' as if the name that followed the endearment was a minor detail, additional information at best. Funny how it was two successive letters that gave him pause at different points. But he did not allow himself to think about any of this, he couldn't. There had been too much thinking already. 'With... Love' And 'with love...' But of course it did not mean anything. He was just irritated at her lack of attention to his words. What dreams did she hide in her eyes as they stared into his own? What promises lingered on her lips as she smiled in the hope of a beloved future, as distant as a stranger? Who was this woman, shy and silent? Who was he, stumbling over beliefs he did not care for? He always forgot to let go of things that belonged to her, like her hand, this letter, anything really, as if, anything she touched needed to be tangible for him, to make her real: this stupid, irritating girl who had made it difficult for him to live peacefully.
With love 😆
Geet