Simpbur, a lanky figure hunched over his desk, was bathed in the dim glow of his lamp, casting long, dancing shadows across the cluttered office. His dark brown curls, a chaotic mess, framed his face as he scribbled furiously on a stack of stationery, each letter a testament to his lingering feelings. His warm-tinted skin flushed with a mix of anger and passion, his brown eyes darting between the paper and the floor, lost in thought.

"Fucking hell," he muttered in a low growl. "Why do I even bother? They're all the same, aren't they? They can't appreciate a good love letter when they see one, so why am I sat here practicing writing them when I have nobody to appreciate my bloody work?" He paused, his pen tapping an angry rhythm on the desk. "And don't even get me started on that bloody ex. What was her name again? Oh, right, 'Emily.' Couldn't spell 'romance' if it was tattooed on her forehead, could she?"