I don’t understand why she writes the letters, but she sends them to me every week.

I guess she owns one of those old-fashioned fountain pens because every letter is like this tiny black vine curling itself into perfectly round circles and then twisting into hypnotizing waves.

Sometimes she writes only a few exciting, lively sentences about her current future career choice (a biologist), her new boyfriend’s family’s “outlandish” taste in music, or simply telling me how happy she is now that she doesn’t have to answer to anybody.

I guess that would make most of us happy, although I’m not sure that’s how it should be.

Every letter since the first has been so packed full of grammar errors that I honestly wonder if she’s trying to make me laugh. I wish I knew where she is or who she’s with, but for some reason as long as that crisp, white rectangle shows up in my mailbox every Monday at half past twelve, the details don’t matter.

When the clouds are black and the raindrops are slipping down my tiny bedroom window, where I press my face as I devour my tiny slice of her mind, I imagine her living a wild, careless life in Ireland, where not a soul is foreign to a constant shower of the sky’s emotions. When the ninety-degree heat is beating down into my tired eyes on my way to work, I picture her hiding away on a beach in Spain, soaking up the sun religiously – just like the way her mother used to yell at her for skipping church on Sundays. Or like the way I’ve read every word and kept every letter that she’s sent me the past eight months.

I don’t understand why she writes the letters.

I don’t understand how she finds the time.