Dear Rose,

This is silly and well I know it. I also know you would have no reluctance in telling me so – and in stronger terms – if you ever saw this letter. Which is why, love, you shall never have the privilege of reading it.

But doesn't not sending a letter defeat the purpose of writing it? Probably. I've just always thought of diaries as watery and pointless or egotistical and self pandering; thus am tediously attempting to avoid the appearance of writing one.

– I hope you noticed what I did there and if you didn't, stop complaining how you never win our games –

I need order. Order and systematic putting-down-ness, because something stupendous has happened. Yes, stupendous. My head is so tiresomely full with the same thoughts running round and round I have to write them down to make room for new ones. Or else I will likely explode, and it will be horribly messy, and you know how you hate cleaning; so please bear with me, Rose. It's not going to be some great epistle documenting circumstances for the sake of posterity. I just need to be able to breathe again.

I'm justifying why you should read something I refuse to ever let you read, that's what a bad state I'm in.

It is, as you may have guessed, the evening of the day of Oscar's first visit. I say first in the fervent hope that it is the first and will be followed by the second and the third and many others. Not the only lonely one. I so hope.

Now, you will recount the infamous (already though it only happened this morning) Encounter in the Kitchen and regret o so remorsefully that I was upstairs, but I'll have you know I saw him first. While you were clattering away over your raspberry tarts, I was ensconced in my window, giving me a perfect view as he came over the front lawn. Not striding or sauntering, nothing ostentatious or overtly anything; he just walked across the garden, into the house, and into my heart. My heart, I say.

Isn't he the most gorgeous creature you ever beheld. I noticed first the sun glinting on his hair, which is gorgeous. From his dimples, to his crooked smile, and his strong delicate fingers – I'm not making any sense but how can you expect me to at a time like this? His ears stick out a little perhaps, but his hair covers them, and it wouldn't do to be too perfect. That said, his eyes! Don't they just make you want to swoon and feed him ice cream all at once?

Yes, I'm being ridiculous – the ice cream would just go everywhere if you tried.

I am utterly infatuated.

Thank goodness I'm too shy to say more than a handful of words to him and give myself away. Please feel free to kick me if my eyes show the slightest sign of mooning, to save us all the embarrassment.

What am I doing? I should be saying all this to you. But you like him too, don't you, Rose. And I need one small space to myself, and it shall be the place in my head where Oscar has taken up residence.

He said he will come again tomorrow. Do you think he will? Of course he will, why would he say so if he wasn't. Still, do you think he will?

Yours apprehensively – nauseously even; I'm sick with dread and delight –

Rose

Dear Rose,

He sings, he dances, he punts and swims; is there anything he cannot do and do to perfection? Rose, Rose, Rose. Rose and Oscar. Oscar and Rose. Actually our names have too many syllables to be said together, but I shall persevere and prevail.

He also rescues damsels in distress. Yes, it is distressing to be struck in a tree. If you had ever experienced it yourself, you wouldn't laugh. I might have died.

I might have! I nearly choked to death trying to stutter out a thank you.

And I might yet die of happiness; it is a distinct possibility, further distinguishing itself every day.

Yours perfectly sincerely,

Rose

Deary me Rose,

Turning green from the tip of your nose to the tops of your toes does not change the facts that my ankle is very sprained, we're the same size so there was no hope of you supporting me, and thus it was an absolute necessity that Oscar carried me all the way home. Just be thankful I didn't take advantage of the situation as you would have done. You know you would have. And it was very nice of him to wait on me hand and foot the rest of the afternoon. Ha.

But. Yesterday, he held your hand for two hours after steadying you along the bridge's railing. And every night when he leaves, you hug and kiss him while I sort of shake his hand then stare at the ground until he's gone.

If this were a game you'd absolutely be winning.

Yours dejected suddenly,

Rose

Oscar is a character entirely of my own invention and not nearly as cool as Oscar Wilde, though that's certainly who he was named after. What the 'Wilde' in the title refers to may soon become apparent. And the same Rose writes every single letter, sorry for any confusion.