So that I may clasp your hand during beachside strolls, as you savor the sun and sand… and describe the flower hues, much like your youthful glow…
My dearest, unless I’m convinced someone loves you more than I, I cannot pluck that flower and perish.”
Tears spilled onto the letter, smudging his words. Continuing to read, “Now that you’ve perused my answer, if content, open the door—I stand outside with your favorite bread and fresh milk…”
Hurriedly, I threw open the door, greeted by his anxious countenance, clutching the milk and bread tightly.
I am now certain that no one’s affection for me surpasses his. I’ve resolved to leave the flower untouched…
