[ WP ] You 've always been bad at writing love letters ; they always come off as vague threats .

Thoughtfully, I sit at the table, thinking about what should come next. An idea suddenly strikes me, and I grab my pen at once. This is going to be perfect, I think to myself. At this point, she is standing in the kitchen... 
 
 `` Water or Fanta?'' she asks from behind the fridge door. I am sat down and observing what is one of those moments where only seeing part of someone's body is enough to imagine the outline of the remainder, like seeing only light red in front of you, but knowing that your face is rapidly approaching a brick wall. 
 A few seconds pass before I notice that the thoughts of her voluptuous shape make me assume an unshapely expression on my face. I quickly redirect my gaze toward the floorboards where her feet stand in a sort of celestially elegant fashion upon the ground. Sensing that my mind is approaching another roundabout, I once more attempt to place my stare elsewhere, but a sinking silence reminds me that I should probably be answering her question regarding refreshments. 
 `` Neither.'' I say in an assured kind of way, before standing up and making my way towards the fridge. With only the white fridge door separating her and myself, I patiently wait for an unanticipated amount of time before being able to execute my plan of staring serenely at her from behind the fridge door after she closes it, just like in the movies. This is considerably more awkward for the person on the opposite side, but I hope that she will find it intriguing and quirky, instead of eerie and frightening. 
 After establishing the awaited eye contact and mercilessly melting away the legs of my love interest in the process, I let my eyes hover across hers for just one more second. “ I ’ m afraid I ’ ll be leaving now, but worry not; I ’ ll see you tomorrow anew. ” 
 I turn away toward the door, knowing about the love letter that I planted in her backpack for her to find later, and make my exit without sparing a gaze in her direction. The girl stands, transfixed, breathing it all in… 
 
 This part, I think about for a brief moment, reflecting on what to write next. She offers drinks, I decline, virile as I am. Next comes the behind-the-fridge-door-look, quintessential to only the most devoted of romantics, and then… Ah yes, the perfect segue to me bidding her farewell and then making my exit, leaving her swooning like a female love drunk on rohypnol. I grasp my pen firmly, to conclude... 
 
 …In this moment, she is certain. This is the man she will be spending the rest of her life with. 
 
 I put down my pen to observe my masterpiece. On the verge of shedding a tear, I pause for a second before writing the final part… 
 
 So tell me my dear, what do you think? Is it not beautiful? I expect of course that you will have it all learned by heart by the time we meet again, for our little homework session, you know, whenever you ’ re free. I realize the story states that the love letter should be left in your backpack, and not glued to your dead dog like this one is, but worry not; I will be bringing you a second letter, which will then be equivalent to the one represented in the story above. 
 Should you follow all this like an actor would a script, it shall end up just like in the movies, and we ’ ll fall in love. I can ’ t imagine anything going wrong of course, but should anything, by chance, not go according to this epitome of romantic writing, you should know that I ’ ll be attributing all fault to you, personally. I think this only fair, on account of me having spent this much of my deeply valuable time on what can only be described as one of the most romantic and inspirational cases of a real life-applicable play. 
 
 Don ’ t go turning it into a tragedy.
