Evening. A warm summer breeze wafts in through the open window, bringing with it the soft hum of distant traffic and the sweet scent of late-blooming roses. The evening's last rays of light, tinged reddish by the sun's descent, illuminate the desk at which Relena sits, pen poised over several sheets of stationery, apparently lost in thought. In and around the wastebasket at her side are several crumpled balls of paper, haphazardly aimed by an impatient and frustrated hand.

Slowly, with seeming reluctance, the blonde-haired young woman sets pen to paper and begins to write.

Dear Ms. Noin, she begins, but almost immediately crosses it out. "Too formal...much too formal," she mutters, and bends over the page again.

Dear Lucrezia...

She pauses, feeling momentarily awkward at using such familiar address, not wishing to be rude, but rolls her eyes a bit at her own worries and plows on. Her writing, like her speech, is normally quite formal, and now made even more so by nerves. The thing she wishes to communicate is difficult to put into words, and she takes refuge in flowery language.

Dear Lucrezia,

I hope you will forgive me for my familiarity at using your first name, but, given the nature of this letter, it seems to me that it would be odder were I to address you as 'Lieutenant Noin.'

I am, unfortunately--or fortunately, perhaps, depending on how you look at it--not practiced at writing love letters. In fact, I never really expected to be in the position of having to confess romantic feelings via writing, and especially not to a woman, but I have found myself doing so many unexpected things that I hardly have the energy to marvel at them all. If romance novels are to be believed, this should be the point at which I declare that I am in love with you, that my soul overflows with passion, that I am dying to be yours forever.

I am finding, however, that romance novelists have a grossly oversimplified view of how the human heart works.

It would be something of an exaggeration, and also dishonest, I feel, to declare passionate, straight-from-the-bottom-of-my-palpitating-heart love. I am afraid that my feeling don't run quite that deep. I have no burning desire to perform miracles in order to prove my love; I have not, on those occasions that I have looked into your eyes, felt myself to be drowning; and I don't think that I need your kisses to breathe.

What I do feel for you is a great deal of respect, regard, and yes, some measure of attraction. It took me by surprise as well. My desires for you extend, at this point in time, only as far as the desire for some form of favorable reply to this missive. Your eyes, while quite a nice shade of blue, are merely eyes, and not limpid pools, windows to your soul, or crushed forget-me-nots--in fact, I find that rather a disturbing comparison; who finds dead and mutilated flowers romantic? I have never had the occasion to kiss you, but I seem to have managed to breathe all right up to this point, and I rather believe I shall continue to do so until I die. However, neither would I be averse to the idea of kissing you.

Lucrezia, (if I may call you that) I will understand if you do not return my regard. In fact, I think it quite likely that you shall be baffled and perhaps a bit dismayed by this letter. I do hope that we can remain on friendly terms, whatever your feelings for me. As I have said, I respect you a great deal, and would be saddened to think that you might not wish to remain in contact with me after this. All I ask is that you respond to me, one way or another, and not leave me waiting, fearing that I have driven you away in speaking up.

Yours,

She hesitates when it comes to the signature, not sure what family name to use. For very formal communications, she is in the habit of hyphenating her name to Darlian-Peacecraft, in honor of both her birth name and the parents who raised her, but it doesn't really seem appropriate here. Finally, she decides to eliminate the surname altogether; Noin will know who it is from, and that's all that matters.

Relena she signs with a flourish, and sets the pen down. Deliberately, she stamps and addresses the envelope, then sets it in her Out tray, to be mailed in the morning. No going back now.

Night has fallen. Somewhere in the midst of her writing, she has switched on the desk lamp. Now she stands, stretches, and turns it off again, then makes her way out of the study and in the direction of her bedroom. She very carefully refrains from dwelling on the little packet sitting in her study, on what the writing of such a letter might mean for her and what Noin's reaction will be. She doesn't allow herself to hope, or to fear. Instead, she washes her face, changes into her nightclothes, and gets into bed.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring?