MargenI wrote her the most honest letter of my life. It took me three nights. In it I confessed everything I had never been able to say out loud: that I had loved her since the first day at the market, that I kept the handkerchief she had dropped, that I thought of her when I woke.
I handed it to her, trembling, on our usual bench. She unfolded it slowly, ran her eyes along the lines, smiled, and gave it back to me without a word.
I walked home happy, believing in a yes.
Only that night, lying in the dark, did I understand what had happened. I had copied it letter by letter from a book, because I can neither read nor write.
And she, handing it back with that sweet smile, was telling me that she couldn't either.