A/N: A little update for you guys. I hope enjoy it and you have a good read. Thank you for the feedback, I always appreciate it.

Paris, June 12th

Dear Spencer,

I didn't send it. I wanted too but I didn't. I couldn't. I actually walked until to the post service in the hotel but couldn't bare to go inside. The clerks must've thought I was a lil' crazy since I stood there for longer then 40 minutes just looking through the glass door. Constantly taking one step forward, before taking two steps back. I just didn't feel like I was ready. And I swear when I was writing you that letter I was positive I was going to march down to the post office and post it with sheer determination and without a single hesitation on my part. Because I want you to know. I need you to know. I'm tired of not telling you how I really feel. But at the same time I'm not feeling strong enough to tell you everything quite yet. Because I'm used to always hide my feelings behind laughs and sarcasm and everything that isn't 100 percent pure. Like when I first told you I was jealous and immediately corrected myself by telling you that it was of pure friendly nature. Or the first time I told you that I loved your brownies, instead of simply you. And when I finally was strong enough to utter it, I had to mouth it to you cause I was afraid that the sound of those words, the heaviness of those sentiments would make me bolt straight out of your life. Or when I finally found the strength to hold your hand in public, but displayed it as me just wanting to read your lifelines.

Everything I always did or felt or said, I hid beneath another action, another word, another feeling. I want that to change. I want to be able to tell you how I feel at all times, without being afraid at what the consequences might be. That letter was supposed to be the start of my turnaround. But I how can I turn around when I don't even feel that I am somewhere. When all I feel is lost.

I was thinking earlier today when you were telling me how you brought your life down to 'before me' and 'with me' and how you were so much better off with me. Well, I feel the same way about you, Spencer. There's the Ashley before you and there's the Ashley with you. And that Ashley with you is nowhere near to perfect but god, she's some much better than the Ashley before you. The one you haven't really met save for a few times. The one you encountered briefly the last few months, although it definitely was a lighter version. That's one of the reason why I'm here right now. Because I don't want you to meet that Ashley. I don't want you to ever meet her. And I can't help but hope that when I'll be back, that I'll be still be able to bring down my life to before you and with you. Instead of entering another stage. Instead of entering the stage of 'after' Spencer. I'm desperately hoping that it'll always be 'with' and never 'after'. Just like it was meant to be.

"Spencer?"

I quickly bring the letter to my lap, hiding it from the person who just walked in and caught me huddled over the kitchen-table at well past 3 in the morning. Hiding in the darkness of the kitchen that I abounded so much, only lit with the soft glow of the moon.

"What are you doing here?"

Just reading a letter from the girl who stole my heart, shed it and somehow is delicately putting it back together. Reading here because my room was too intimate, too us, too subjective. As if I couldn't think straight in a room where I shared so many firsts with that girl. As if I wouldn't be able to pass a fair judgment, when my surroundings were all biased. Reading it now, because I needed all this time to process her first letter. Because of the fact that I couldn't process it, I also couldn't bring myself to sleep and I couldn't not read at least one more letter.

"I couldn't sleep, so I …I just came here."

It's illogical and doesn't give a decent explanation but it's all I can give now and I know she understands. She gives me a half-smile, gently walks towards the fridge afraid to break the silence, takes a bottle of water and shuffles her way out before she stops midway with her back faced to me.

"It's hard, sweetie. For all of us. I'll be waiting when you're ready."

With that she leaves me, while she rejoins her soulmate. Her other half, her love of her life, her source of comfort. And leaves me, trying to reconnect with mine.

I take the letter from my lap again and try to straighten it with my palms, from the new-formed creases. Only willing it to have the creases of her. Letting it be personalized with her folding and not mine. Not yet.

So, like you've probably noticed by now I'm in Paris. Well, that's what my plane ticket and the view outside my window says anyway. I haven't gotten out of my room yet, save for my unsuccessful attempt to post your letter. Kyla comes in every single morning through our common door, still not bothering to knock, to try and get me out of my bed. But she never succeeds. I can't bring myself to go outside. It's ironic that I'm residing it the City of Love, but I've never been more alone. I feel like I don't have the right to go outside and take in the beauty of this city and relish its treasures without my other half. I'd be somehow cheating on you if I would. One day, I'll visit it and relish it and fall in love with it and call it my secret place. Our secret place, because you'll be there with me. We'll row on our little boat on the Seine in the evening, and we'll row until we're far away from the world. Far away from everyone and everything. Only surrounded by lotus buds and beautiful white swans, and you'll tell me that it's like a dream. And when we'll be trudging down empty streets in the middle of the night, only lightened by the lampposts I'll ask you if you would dance with me. Alone together, without a care of the world, swaying to the music of our beating hearts.

You made me watch that movie too many times, Spencer. And no matter how many times I moan and complain about it being ridiculously unrealistic and cliché and only wanting to watch it because I think that Rachel McAdams is hot, I secretly love it. I love it, because I want to share it with you. Because one day, I want us to be unrealistic and cliché. I want us to be able to lay down on a deserted crossroad watching how the lights change.

But those days are still long away. And I'll be content to know that they're still far away but still present in our future. I'll be happy if you'll be willing to wait for me to change. To be the person you deserve to be with. And even if you're done with waiting, done with my irresponsibility's and decide to move on, I won't. I'll always fight for you. No matter how long it takes.

Cause if you're a bird, I'm a bird.

Yours truly,

A.D.

I sigh softly into the night, as I get up from this estranged table and take the letter in my hands. Softly folding it, making new creases of my own. Not caring that they reform a new pattern of creases. That my creases meet hers somewhere in the middle. And as I trudge up the stairs to my too intimate, too biased room and shuffle in my bed of sleepless night, I finally fall asleep. And with the letter still clutched in my hand I create all sorts of new unknown creases. I create all sorts of new routines. All sort of new beginnings.

And in the morning when I'll wake up, I'll trace each and one of those creases just like she traced my lifelines such a long time ago.