I’ve tried writing this letter about a hundred times over the past year, and I always gave myself a good reason to not actually go through with it. Letters are corny, you’d think it was weird, we’ll just see each other around anyway and I can talk to you then. But then I would see you, and the words would never come. I was always too caught up in arguing with you to say what I actually wanted to say.”

As he spoke, she recited the words along with him in her head, having committed them to memory through her painstaking editing process. The words sounded different in Paul’s voice, and the reality of another person bringing them to life filled her with a nervous, fluttering ecstasy.

“And what I wanted to say is: I can’t stop thinking about you. When I found out that you got a job in the city, too, I wanted to jump into your arms and tell you how excited I was, because the thought of you going back to Los Angeles shattered me. How could I let you go to the other side of the country, when I can’t even stop thinking about you for a day?

“And I do think of you.

“I think of you first thing in the morning when I’m getting ready, and if I know I’ll see you, I make sure I look my best. I think of you in the evenings right before bed, wishing I could listen to you tell me about your day. My life is always colored by you, even when you’re not around.

“Part of the reason I never said this stuff is because I was terrified of losing our friendship, but then I realized, I don’t want a friendship where we can’t be totally honest with each other. And I might be wrong—and if I am, I’ll probably never forgive myself—but I know deep down that you feel the same way about me. We could go our whole lives without being the one to say it first, but I don’t want to live my life that way. I want to follow my heart, and my heart always brings me back to you, no matter how hard I try to run the other way.

“I love you.

“Alex.”

Paul brought the pages down and refolded them delicately. The room was silent, only the gentlest New York City noises slipping in through the slightly open window. Paul was still, the folded letter in his hands like a prayer chalice. They looked at each other for a good minute: her eyes wet with the lightest slick of tears, his face completely devoid of humor or sarcasm.

“Lex,” he finally said, restrained. “I don’t know if you should leave this for him.”