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I am hesitant to write any of this down, plainly out of fear of it falling in to the wrong hands. I did not want to tell you personally for fear of ridicule. As I continued to think of ways to tell you, I gradually lost all my courage.
I wish to tell you of my most secretive and darkest internal debate: I think I am in love. But I am not sure. How can anyone be sure on the matter of love? But this “feeling”, if you will, is building up inside of me and I can confide in no one. So this is my outlet, although no one shall ever see this letter.
I shall not disclose his name for both of our reputations’ sakes. I am also afraid that if I tell you how I fell in love with this respectable man, that you too shall fall in love with him, without even knowing his name! How mother would laugh!
He and I only talk when society or certain events bring it upon us to converse, and when he speaks, I have a troublesome time of concentrating on what it is that he is saying exactly, because his voice flows like milk and honey or the finest silk. His dazzling blue eyes sparkle every time I take a chance to glance his way. Even when he is talking to me, they have a soft shimmer to them, and I am able to gaze into them longingly without concern towards suspicious peoples.
Every time I glance in his direction, he only has eyes for me. This puzzles me, however, to know that he watches me. It is almost as if he returns my affections, but I know this to be false, for he has made no gesture to court me, or to, at least, show me more attention. But alas, I do not know.
Back to the matter at hand, his elegant hands wave dramatically about as he speaks of something dear to his heart or something that excites him. When he beatifically smiles, it takes the breath out of me! His smile is mesmerizing and perfect. And as he crosses the room—to speak with either his guests or his servants—it is a graceful movement. He struts with an air of confidence—I desperately wish I had—almost as if he thinks highly of himself (though he does not), like an arrogant peacock as he proudly displays his assorted colored feathers.
I am terrified that I have given extensive information. Maybe I should stop here before I reveal too much, or maybe I should just tell you how I think I fell in love. I believe I shall do the latter. Alas, time is precious and I am quickly running out of it. So I shall leave you here. Maybe I will expand on my feelings at a later date, but I doubt that I will, for I feel better now that I have gotten that much off my shoulders.
Farewell to you, for you have listened to a young and troubled heart, of someone you do not know, ramble on about someone you do know. Goodbye and the best of luck to you for tolerating this confession—even though you do not know you have read it.