You're late today. You're usually dressed by now. I look up from my sketch in time to see you remove your shirt. You're standing in front of the dresser, with your back towards me. But I don't care. I love your back. I love your legs, I love your hair; there's no part of you I don't love. There it is again, that...feeling...'attraction' I think it's called. I should be used to it by now. But I'm not. It always feels new and overwhelming. It feels like someone's going to attack, but they never do. I don't know. But for some reason I think I like it. But you don't know. You don't know what I feel for you. You know I wouldn't be alive if not for you. Still, you never say anything about it. We're always making small talk. Or do you? Do you know? Did you read my letter? I'm afraid to look, see if it's still there. I want to tell you, Mireille. I want to tell you so badly I feel I'm gonna burst if I don't. I want to tell you I'm attracted to you and I want to kiss you and I want to do things to you. But how? I've never done this before. WHat do I say? 'Mireille, you know those women on TV--' No. 'Um Mireille? I have something to tell you.' I...don't know. Ah! 'Mireille, I find you attractive and I want to kiss you.' Yes. That's good. Be blunt. Get it over with. "Mirei--" But you're already leaning over the bed, fully dressed, holding a letter. Is that my letter? "Kirika, I need to tell you something."
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