Dearest Edward,

You've done it. You've finally worn me down, beaten my more logical impulses in favor of emotional ones.

I can no longer pretend that my feelings for you will disappear, no more than I can continue to deny them a future. At the very least, I must confess to you or else I think I'll go quite mad.

I've penned another letter, one that Lieutenant Hawkeye is on her way to deliver to the post office as I write. That one is addressed to you properly, and unlike the countless others I have stuffed away in my desk, you'll read it. In an attempt to keep some of my dignity, I did refrain from baring all to you in ink alone. Instead, I decided to invite you here for a visit. Seeing you in person, I figured, will either cure me of my romantic notions, or let me act on them. Only time will tell.

So. I suppose I no longer have any need to continue this series of letters. It's strange; my imagined writings to you have been a comfort for so long, letting them go is a little painful.

Hopefully, though, I'll just be replacing these with something infinitely better. With bated breath, I await your response, Ed. Don't keep me waiting too long.

Ever yours,

Roy