Once upon a time, there used to be this guy. He was in love with a girl — or maybe it was infatuation, he couldn’t say — and she, he hoped, liked him too.
Then circumstances dictated they went seperate ways. He went left, she went right. They continued exchanging letters.
Time passed, and slowly (without either of them knowing it), correspondence between them decreased in frequency.
Their last few letters stood out in that they were full of courtesies: “How do you do? Hope you are fine.”
Writing letters to each other, once deliberated over (“I have just come back from a nice cup of coffee, how sleepy I felt”), and enjoyed (“so nice to hear from you”), now seemed like a chore; rushed; to be gotten over with.
Then the letters stopped.