“You'll never know until you try.”

I know Jane is right, but logic keeps up a steady supply of excuses. It won't work. I'll get my heart broken. If I take this risk, things won't end well.

My mouth is dry from arguing. Every excuse, every lie, every fear has already been said. The letter lies in my lap, looking innocent enough. Part of me wants to rip it up and never speak of its contents again. Another part of me, the crazy destructive part, wants to take the risk. This letter is a piece of me. I wrote it to the boy who holds my heart unknowingly.

My lips part slightly, whispering, “What if I'm mistaken? What if he doesn't feel the same way?”

“We've all heard the story. We've all seen how he acts around you. But all we have is a hunch; you won't know unless you give him that letter.”

In my mind's eye, I see him smiling at me at the dance. I see him laughing next to me when he gave me a ride home. I see his eyes, his face, everything about him that made me fall head over heels, heart over brain.

I know I don't want to spend the rest of my life wishing I'd done more than write a letter that was never sent, but giving him this letter would mean surrendering my heart to another. Why don't they tell you love is this hard in romance novels? How can such a silly, crazy, brilliant, kind person turn my world upside down and inside out?

I take a deep breath. I know the world must think me insane – most of my friends do. I know that I might not get my happy ending. I know he isn't Mr. Darcy, and I'm sure not Elizabeth Bennet. If someone told me that one day I'd be clutching a love letter like a life line, a letter to a boy about to embark on a journey to the future, I'd have said they were bonkers. Maybe I'm the one who is bonkers.

“This might not end well. But I have to try.”