My disillusionment grew. Here stood a man unable to articulate his emotions—what more could I expect? Eventually, he queried, “What can I do to change your mind?”
Someone once said that altering one’s nature is a formidable task. I suppose I’m beginning to doubt his potential. Peering into his eyes, I responded deliberately, “Consider this: If you can address my query in a way that convinces my heart, I might reconsider. Imagine a flower perched on a mountain precipice, retrieving it ensures your demise. Would you do it for me?”
He mused, “I’ll offer my response tomorrow…” His reply dealt a blow to my hopes.
The next morning, I awoke to his absence. Beneath a glass of milk on the dining table near the entrance, I found a note bearing his scrawled script, which began, “My dearest, I wouldn’t pluck that flower for you. Allow me to elucidate…”
As I read further, the first line shattered my heart. The letter continued:
