She tried writing the letter herself. There was a long debate with the nib of her pen whether it was appropriate to begin with “dear.” There had to be an easier way to explain “outgrowing you,” a more palatable phrase to replace “I am unhappy.”
In a bookstore, she lingered away from the shelves of old literature. The weight of timeless love did not help. Past the pens and stationery, she headed for a rack with birthday cakes and confetti, church bells, pumpkins, stars and puppies. She found a card with a drawing of a heart. She opened it and it was empty.