Dear Luke,
I remember every time you stayed over, you would wake up twenty minutes earlier than me so you could make your infamous blueberry pancakes that I loved (even though they tasted horrible).
I tried to make them just like you used to, but I couldn't, they turned out terrible. I just thought that if you were to somehow magically find out I made them, you would reappear in front of me and we could kiss and make up.
I was wrong, I'm always wrong. I'm sorry.
Love,
Florence.