April 30th, 1940.
{Writing}
Dear, Harry:
I know you're probably wondering why I don't say I love you, anymore. Believe me, I love you so much, but after what Eli had told me, I've just had these thoughts going through my mind. Questions not even myself can answer.
Is love real? is it fictional? or is it just a faze that only the clueless fall for? Is it really meant for those who are in love? what if what we have, or had, isn't really love but something we forced ourselves to believe?
I wish I knew the answer.
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