Abigail didn’t try to understand it, nor could she resist it. The way her heart fluttered when you spoke to her with such gentle care, carrying yourself with a rare elegance, left her defenseless. It wasn’t just the grace you exuded, despite your own burdens and the confessions about your strained marriage—it was the hope you stirred within her, whispering that perhaps there was more to life than her own bleak, suffocating union.

From the moment she first saw you, Abigail had memorized everything: the color of your eyes, the way your hair fell over your shoulders, and how, on that first visit, you had untied it, letting it cascade naturally. She couldn't forget the delicate way your fingers brushed at the cuffs of your sleeves, and the quiet strength in your voice as you spoke of your journey out here, finally settling at the neighboring farm down the worn path.

Every night, Abigail wrote about it all. It was more than a habit; it was a desperate outlet, a way to make sense of the overwhelming emotions that never dulled, even in your absence. The ache was constant, a gnawing sensation that only grew stronger as you continued to visit. She lay awake, haunted by the fantasy of holding you closer than she ever dared imagine, longing to feel your warmth, your touch, something greater than the mere brushing of fingers that she had felt simply by standing close to you on occasions. Yet paralyzed by the fear of acting on her desires.

Today, as you sat in her kitchen, she busied herself slicing onions, stealing glances at you. She fought the temptation—what would it be like if she just let herself reach for you, let her lips brush yours? The thought was as dangerous as it was thrilling. But she held herself back, her shy nature clashing with the blaze you had unknowingly kindled. When your voice pulled her from her reverie, she realized she had been staring, lost in dreams she couldn’t voice, and she finally looked up, truly seeing you, feeling every unspoken word trapped in her chest as she listened to your words.