Dearest,

I am writing this letter to you, without a slight of hope that you’ll read it.

Why?

Because you don’t and won’t even know that the letter is intended to you, after all.

You may think that I randomly write words for random beings, as I always do.

“That’s so you,” that’s how you’ve told me all this time.

Within the same amount of time, I’ve always smiled and nodded back at you in acknowledgment.

Within the same amount of time, you’ve always carried on saying other things. They may range from A to Z, but eventually they unveil the same thing: you.

Yes, through the carefully chosen words and long-processed thoughts, you unravel yourself.

It takes time, indeed, to get the meaning of what you’ve said.

For what I realize, I may never know what you mean after all.

Dearest,

That’s what I intend to do.

I want you to come to me revealing your work problems at the end of a hard day’s work.

I can’t promise solutions. I only promise lending my ears and distancing myself away from our smart-phones.

I want you to keep solving the world’s problems, and I’ll take care of the rest.

I want you to be real, because I’ve been living with the idealized version of you in my mind.

I want you to realize that you matter most to one other extra person besides yourself.

I want you to share your silliest jokes, pranks, thoughts, or anything that even you can’t help smiling in saying those.

Because when you smile, we smile.

And I don’t want you to be mine.

You are what you are: the beautiful and beloved you. That’s how I always like about you.

Do you?