“You look kinda like a Forget-me-not which makes sense since, well, yer-”
The paper is crumbled and tossed to the side, pencil pulled away before it’s wasted and the eraser not even a thought in his head as the letter falls. It’s joined on the floor alongside many, many more akin to itself. Pieces of partially-written poetry, love letters, ideas, barely even thoug...
