The letter was short, but I read it again and again for a hundred times that night. Adam’s handwriting wasn’t neat and was rather small unlike mine, but I found amusement in the way he curled his ‘y’s or his ‘g’s.
That night as I laid awake on my bed with his letter still in my hands, reading through it for the thousandth time, I smiled to myself as I thought of how he had burrowed every book from the town’s library about my favourite poet.
For the first time in my life, I felt that my passions actually mattered, that someone cared enough to take my words to heart.
So as an idea made its way over my head, I got out of bed and walked toward my desk. I felt so excited that I didn’t even sit on my chair. I just took out a blank paper and a pen, and I started writing.
Dea
