To you, who taught me what it feels to be loved…

Spoiler.

She never sent these letters, nor did she ever speak to him again.

To you,

November 1st, 1779

I'm still waiting for you. Waiting for any clue of where you are. Why you left. Why did you never say anything. Why didn't I embrace you harder in the past. Why I can't completely forget you.

The past we share is one I love but wished to redo it. I would have done things differently. But it is today with what I have and live with, after all, time waits for no one. I am still waiting for an answer to why you left, but within me I know I don't want to hear. Or simply just isn't the answer that I want.

I wish to mess up, find you, find out where you are, why you left, get to know you, disobey my own mind, my morals, just for me to maybe regret it in the future, but I do not want it at the same time, is that the only thing holding me back from all of this? A past I am traumatized with, the fear of loving and taking that, am I sacred to find you because I know I will love you more and mess up? Mess up? Disobey? And get hurt, hurt you, my family, others.

Intimes love is a curse, only those who disobey obtain it, and those who don't disobey hurt alone.

Love is indeed the deadliest desire of all.