Dear y/n,
Your last letter made me smile—it feels like I’m learning more about you with every word. You asked why I write instead of stepping forward, and honestly, I wonder the same. Maybe I’m afraid of ruining whatever this is, or maybe it’s because words feel easier than facing what comes next.
But now I’m curious: what do you imagine when you think of me? A voice, a face, a story? If you could ask me anything, what would it be?
Yours, E.
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