I’m at work. Nobody knows I’m writing you here. You refuse my visits, so you’re probably tearing up my letters, too. But there’s nothing else I can do but keep trying. It’s beyond my control, do you see?
All those months ago when I had nothing to lose really, I wrote you in my head but was too cowardly to set more than lies on paper. And now I find I no longer care. The love I feel for you runs through me like grain through wood. I love you, Thomas. Your face, your voice, your touch, enter my mind at the least opportune moments and I find I have no power to withstand them. No desire to.
I want us to be together as we were in the cottage, only forever, not just a weekend. I want it to go on so long that it feels normal. I think of you constantly. Your face, your breath on my neck at night. I want to do all the ordinary, unbedroomy things we never got around to doing. Making toast, raking leaves, sitting in silence.
I love you, Thomas. I’ve always loved you. I see that now. Tell me I’m not too late.”
