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I didn’t expect to open my mailbox one summer morning and find an old letter stuffed between bills and a supermarket flyer. Penned in familiar handwriting, dated over fifteen years ago, the letter was written to me after my first date with the man I’ll never forget.
Week after week, new letters appear. Each marks an event in the history of our epic love affair. Each heals a wound. Each holds the confession from the one who still owns my heart.
The letters are full of promise, hope and love, but truth be told, I wish I could unread them all.
Because the man who wrote these letters is not the one sending them.
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