You grip the pen tightly in your hand. That same hand begins to shake as it nears the piece of parchment on your desk. You're scared and yet you're excited. As any man in love should be. Except you're not yet a man are you? You walk only straight lines because you can't seem to pick a place to turn, a direction to choose. You hold out your hand to anyone, like the trusting boy you are. Yet your heart beats frantically, your palms begin to sweat. All this because of one girl. No, one woman. You smile sweetly to yourself; doubt should never clout the heart of someone so deeply in love.

So what if you were young, not yet 18? So what if she were nobler than you were? That should not matter. It's such a trivial thing to think of, the level of one's superiority. You glare hard at the walls in your room, determination making your vision hazy. You will express your feelings to her this night, while the moon lay hidden behind grey wispy clouds. What a coward that moon was, nothing like you. You tap your quill against your desk, a thoughtful expression gracing your features as you think what the best way to tell her is. Shall you write to her of her smile? How every time her red lips lift even the smallest inch your heart beats so fast you feel faint. Would you write to her about her hands? Even gloved in white silk you can see the delicate outline of her bones, the daintiness of their size. How you wish you could press your lips against her hand. Without the Lilly white glove to hinder the act. You shook your head, how dare you think such thoughts! This is the love of your life, the star in your dark horizon. Her face was in your mind when you woke up, thoughts of her floating throughout the day, and just before you went to bed when you close your eyes, she was there. You should not taint this love by pondering such dirtied things. You feel your cheeks start to heat and you know your blushing even though you're alone in your room and no one could have possibly heard your thought. The blush spreads from your neck to your hairline nonetheless and you growl in frustration. How in the world could you be a man for her if you blushed at even the simplest thought?

You scold yourself; you must grow up and fast. For your loves coming out season draws near and soon the wolves will approach. Moreover, why wouldn't they? For his dear Sonya was nothing if not a beauty. Her hair was a chocolate brown, a rich earthy color. Her eyes were green and hazel, as if she were Mother Nature herself in a human body. Everything about her was alive, much like the earth itself. You stare down at the parchment on your desk once again and start to write. You have dear Sonya down before your minds goes blank as if a gust of wind had wiped the loving thoughts encasing your heart before away. What if she will not be pleased? What if she rejects your letter? You clutch your chest just were your heart is as pain of rejection racks you. Your eyes squeeze tight and then you slowly open them again as you realize how dramatic your being. You write another line, and then re- read it.

My lovely Sonya, I know this letter may seem somewhat unorthodox but I must tell you what my cowardice has been keeping me from.

Should you call her you're Sonya or would she find that odd? Furthermore, why would you write of your cowardice when you were trying to be a man for her? No, this would not do at all; you must show her your love in a more manly way. You grabbed the piece of parchment and crumbled it up. You whipped out a fresh one, dipped your quill in ink and started again. It took you three more tries to finally come up with something suitable. Within those three tries, you realized something, something remarkable. You had an epiphany, what you thought was an understanding about what true love is. After you had crumpled up your first letter and started on your second you decided to write poetry for her. For Sonya has always boasted to you about her liking of Christopher Marlowe. Her sweet bow shaped lips had even recited one of his poems to you. Of course, you staring at her lips and the fragile curve of her jaw hardly paying any attention you forgot most of what she said, but you remembered quite clearly her voice. You loved her voice, the sound so calming and soothing. When she would talk fast when she was excited about something, or talk quietly when she was comforting one of her friends who seemed to love crying at any elite party they went to. You finished that second letter thinking hard trying to remember that poem she recited to her, then giving up and searching for any old love poem you could find and writing it down. When you were done, you blew gently on the paper to dry the still wet ink. Clearly, the writing was a tad smudged but it was quite all right by your standards. You felt quite proud of yourself when you were done, thinking of yourself as such a genius.

It wasn't until you read it over that you realized you weren't such a genius. These weren't your feelings for her! You didn't want to lay your head upon her bosom. Well you did, but it was fairly vulgar to say such things to a lady. Then you thought some more, something your father told you you rarely did. Why would you want some other man's words to express what you felt to your dear Sonya? You decided to change tactics. If writing some other man's poetry didn't work then you would just have to write your own. It didn't seem hard you thought silently. All you had to do was just babble on about how her eyes were like emeralds and her lips like rubies and all that wonderful stuff that his older sisters swooned over. Nodding you head you once again dipped your quill in the ink, a tiny drop falling to the rich paper. Yet another smudge but you didn't stop writing for you were in frenzy and next you knew you had written six whole pages. You wrote of every endearing thing you found of her. You wrote of her eyes, mouth, voice, and hands. You wrote of her compassionate heart that made your own ache for her. You wrote of her grace and how she held herself so regally without even trying. You were writing so fast trying to get all your feelings down you didn't notice the maid that came in and announced dinner. You ignored her and kept on writing. It wasn't poetry per say. More of every thought you ever thought of her, from the first time you laid eyes on the charming Sonya at your sister's birthday party to just now.

You sat back if you chair sighing in relief; it felt good to get it all out. However, there was something missing you realize, the chance of missing her face as she reads this. The chance of never knowing her full reactions. Whether or not her lips, those wonderfully pink lips would curl in disgust or smile in content. You wanted to see, to watch her face so badly you were sick with it. You hung your head down as something hits you. An understanding. You gently fold the six pieces of paper after they had dried and put them in your desk and take out a new one, your fourth try. It didn't take you long to write it, the shortest out of all of them. A knock has you turning your head, the letter still clasped in your hand. Your father enters your room; his head held high like it always is, like the man he is. His eyes show his concern for you and you smile reassuringly knowing why he was worried, for you did not show up to dinner. He asks you what is wrong and you say simply this:

"I think I'm a man now Father" you get up and left the room, the letter still in your hand. You pass by one of the servants and give him the letter, which is now sealed with your name on it. You whisper to him, telling him whom to give it to and walk back to your room. Your father isn't there anymore so you merely sit by your desk and smile absentmindedly. You aren't afraid, but you are excited for whatever will happen you know you can be a man. A man for your father and a man for her. You dressed for bed and lay down, the last thoughts through your mind were the words written in your letter. Those simple words.

Dear Sonya,

Meet me in the park tomorrow; I have something to tell you.