A dear friend

"Each and every time that I was determined to forget you and move on, you came and disrupted my plans. I should hate you for that but I can't. Maybe I never will. Each and every time u say something that makes me angry and jealous, but I forgive you anyway after a day. Maybe it is the start to a pure friendship. Maybe all the forgiving and forgetting will one day free myself from all that I ever feel for you. One day, there will be nothing left and I can look you in the eye and tell you, you've been a dear friend."

Eleanor wrote with determination but also with a sense of broken-heartedness in a letter addressed to George. Beneath her steely exterior, lay a heart that was weak, where a gentle blow could leave her grieving for weeks. At times like these, she hated herself and wished she was built differently.

She sealed the letter carefully, then paused and ran her fingers over the envelope. With her fingers lingering over the letter, she started to have second thoughts about sending out the letter.

Again, she hated herself for her impulsive determination, which would always weaken into a bout of indecisiveness. 

"Oh how wretched am I! This cowardice! This sorry excuse of a heart!" She buried her face in the palms of her hands, her face a contortion of anger (with herself), pain, and shame. 

With George, she never knew where she stood. But little did she know that George felt exactly the same way about her.

George said at his desk, the tip of his quill lingered over the thick, off-white paper that would eventually become a letter addressed to Eleanor. He had so much to say but had no idea where to begin. 

"Oh how wretched am I! To be in love with a woman with no heart! Absolutely abhorrent! What have I ever done to deserve this, my God!" He cried out. He threw the quill across the desk, the black ink splattered across the letter and the desk. He got up from the desk, furious with himself.

Ah, if only hearts in love could be tamed then there would be two less wretched souls in the world.