Snapshot

Imagine this.

On your morning commute you discover a note in the bushes.

A love letter.

Your skeptical heart didn’t believe in the kind of love you see in the movies. The kind of love that produces handwritten letters such as this, so you read it.

The words move you with their expression of longing, joy, madness, passion, a sense of completion that only the recipient could provide. You almost fall in love with the stranger.

Immediately you wonder where the owner of this letter could be.

Then you see it.

In the last line.

They’re gone.

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