My darling Thomas,
I am at work. Nobody knows I am writing to you here.
You refuse my visits. So you are probably tearing up my letters too. But there's nothing else I can do but keep trying. It's beyond my control, do you see?
All those months ago when I had nothing to lose, really, I wrote to you in my head but was too cowardly to set more than lies on paper. And now I find I no longer care. The love I feel for you runs through me like grain through wood.
I love you, Thomas. Your face, your voice, your touch enter my mind at the least opportune moments. And I find I have no power to withstand them. No desire to. I want us to be together, as we were in the cottage. Only for ever. Not just a weekend. I want it to go on so long that it feels normal. I think of you constantly. Your face, your breath on my neck at night. I want to do all the ordinary, unbedroomy things we never got around to doing. Making toast. Raking leaves. Sitting in silence.
I love you, Thomas. I've always loved you. I see that now. Tell me I am not too late.