The rains were a torrent, cold was setting in. There was a beauty to it, the mirror in her balcony reflecting all the green and wet. Her silly thoughts didn’t escape.

He had asked her to write to him.

It was never this difficult, she thought. Never! But she wouldn’t give up. She wrapped her stole and started turning the pages of her diary. One by one, she went through all her diaries, feeling hungry for words. She found his song, and admired the neat, slanted handwriting, the smell of the paper as if he was there, close to her. She read the lines again and again and sung them, within herself.

From one blog to another, she hopped on, moving quickly from one word to another, thinking that some word would be right-to start-to tell him what she wanted to, what he would like to.

It had never been this difficult.

On the contrary, she knew even if all he got was an empty paper he wouldn’t mind; he wouldn’t even question her, how and what of it.

But then she had to write. More so because anyways she wrote for him and as she had noted, he was indispensable to her writings. Those stories are all about him, each word talked to him, if it didn’t talk about him. If he wouldn’t read them, the words lost their sheen, the meaning lost, they appeared like carcasses. And she thought more and more, about what she would write to him, what can probably come close to justifying what she felt and how she felt.

When he got the letter, he found a crushed, blank paper; close to the edge of the paper, in small letters, with a green ink, was written…

I fall in love with you, everyday!