I spent February of last year writing to random men in my life except my top two favorites of course, whom you’ve met as my father and brother. There were twenty eight days then, I allotted you the twenty seventh day for no apparent reason. I even found it strange why you were in my list, I’ve known you for barely a month then.
It will be a year since that writing project. I guess I am bound to write for whoever I fancy no more. February’s of twenty nine days this year, boy you are lucky to receive special notes everyday.
I have already wondered how to present them to you, like how am I to write or print the text, how am I supposed to fold each, and how am I going to send them to you. But I have to conclude that maybe it shouldn’t bother me a bit. I have written more or less a hundred letters last year without worrying about all these hows. Perhaps everything should just go the same.
You have confessed your love for my letters. I guess the pressure has sprung from that. Well Dear, I can always be just as candidly sweet when writing letters to your name. Besides, there’s so much more to love apart from those. We’ll discover and write about them each day, three hundred and sixty six this year. (And even until we lost track of days the coming years.)