You tell me you love handwritten letters, but you never read them. You say you don’t want to because you don’t want to fall in love with me and probably you don’t want me to fall in love with you.
I know you keep telling me about this guy and how he makes you feel from a different part of the world. And when I say this to you, you don’t believe me; you say it is not love. It probably feels like it but it is not. I know this, because you and I have been in love for a long time now.
Neither of us is willing to accept it nor do we intend to, because naivety.
So, tell me, love, during random afternoons when you are busy doing your work, do you imagine me there with you or you imagine him?
On the nights when you are sipping your lukewarm coffee just the way you like it, cross your heart and tell me you don’t think about me the way I do.
I don’t know what it is about you. Maybe it’s the way nothing else matters when we’re talking or how you make me smile more than anyone else has. It could be the way you always seem to say the right thing at the right time.
Love, if someday you find this letter tucked inside a box of forgotten memories and you are reading this now, just know something if you will. Remember how much it means to me, at this moment, to be in love with you.