The boy wrote 10,000 letters and the girl read almost all of them.
Sometimes she told him what she thought and sometimes he had to guess.
Sometimes he saw her and caught a look in her eyes that made it clear he could still see what lay beneath the surface.
He always remembered that whatever he could see inside her she could see inside him.
One day he wrote her a letter and said he knew she still loved him and that, of course, he still loved her because the kind of love they had never could die.
It might go through periods of time in which it slumbered a bit and there would be moments where it felt like maybe slumber was too generous a word. Moments where he was sure she wondered about it as he did, but then something would happen.
Always, something would happen and he would remember.
He assumed she remembered too and that she intentionally remained silent.
Perhaps it was because she couldn’t see a way forward or perhaps it was because she would protect her own heart by not allowing entry.
He always figured she avoided spending real time with him for that reason because distance made it easier to maintain the wall and the fiction.
Of course he thought there was always the chance he was wrong, but the actions showed otherwise, at least some of them did.
A long twisty road lay behind and perhaps in front.
Sometimes he thought about just pulling her into his arms and kissing her but he didn’t.
Once she would have melted into him and perhaps she still wanted to or would again, but she wasn’t the only one to protect their heart.