nine; lara

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Dear Bucky,

I can only assume you're dead.

So, I went on that date. He was a fine gentleman. He took me for dinner, and he did all those gentleman things. Like pull out my chair, and pay for my food. He even got me the most expensive wine in the restaurant. Though, he didn't take me dancing.

But, all that time, I couldn't help but think about you.

I think I'm in love with you, James. And now that you're probably dead...

I'll have to live with myself somehow.

David, the man who took me on a date, he said that he would like to do it again. I don't know what to say, since I see you in him. Maybe this is fate telling me we weren't meant to be anyway.

I'll never be able to forget you, Bucky. It's been two weeks, and I've read every single letter you've sent me. Which is a lot more than I'll keep in this book. All the little things you like, all the weird writing habits. I've memorized all of them. Every single one.

I read the letter asking what my favourite colour was. Before it was actually a soft orange. I changed to to cerulean because that's the colour of your eyes.

We've written twenty some letters, James. And I've decided to put the ones that I love the most in a book. The ones that tell a story. Though, most of them are just each other telling random stuff about ourselves, so those are stuffed inside my sock drawer. When it's finished, I'll put it on your grave.

I love you.

Your love,

Lara.

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