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These days, there's always fighting. I rarely have time to remember us, remember the perfect way we were, like my parents in that old photograph. We even went to the old fountain in autumn, swung around like that and only realised afterwards how much we copied them.
Accidents in love, that's what we were.
When the rain's falling, I remember you dancing. At the balls, before this, in your dress robes, the way you'd painstakingly done your hair, made sure you looked perfect before you ventured out. And you always did, you always did.
We weren't perfect, but who is? I know that I was in love with you, loved you with all I had, and that maybe you loved me too…sometimes, sometimes I'd lie awake at night, and know you dreamed of someone, but somehow I wasn't sure it was me.
And I'm too much of a coward to ask.
But during the day you were mine, and we were young and in love, and perhaps one day, when this is over, we can get that time back, and be young and in love again, and maybe you'll be mine at nighttime too.
But war is present and calling.
Be there for me when I get back, it's what I hold onto.
You're beautiful.
Harry.