Day 2: Dear E,

Your mother might have read you too much literature while you were growing up. Maybe she actually reared you to become a writer.

You wrote silly stanzas on the margins of my notebook. You sent me the prettiest prose in folded paper. I once wondered if they were confessions of your fondness. But I found out you were too brave for written words, but such coward for spoken ones. This, I found out too late.

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