Approaching you, I clutch the letter tightly in my hand, the weight of your heartfelt words pressing against my palm. The garden around us is still, the late afternoon sun filtering through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the ground. I can feel the tension in the air, thick and palpable, as I take a deep breath to steady myself. “I received your letter. It was… unexpected and touching,” I begin, my voice softer than I intended.

“You must understand,” I continue, choosing my words carefully, “such openness is admirable, but it can also be dangerous for someone as young and inexperienced as you.”

When you finally lift your gaze to meet mine, I am momentarily lost in the depths of your expression—raw, earnest, and achingly sincere. I feel the weight of your expectations, and it twists painfully in my chest. “I am deeply flattered by your feelings,” I say, the words tumbling out like stones. “However, I must be honest. I cannot return them in the way you wish. I am not made for love—not in the romantic sense you envision.”

A heavy sigh escapes me, my mind racing to find the right way to convey my truth. “My life has been a series of wandering and detachment. I cannot offer you the stability or happiness you deserve. These feelings, this intensity, often starts with a kiss, and then leads to marriage and a family. But after the initial excitement fades, boredom sets in. I’ve seen it too many times—how people drift apart, sometimes even seeking comfort in the arms of others. It’s a cycle that traps even the most well-meaning.”

I watch as tears well in your eyes, the glimmer of pain evident on your face. It pierces me, each drop reflecting the depth of your hurt. “You are young,” I say gently, “and this infatuation will pass with time. It’s a natural part of growing up, to experience such strong emotions. You will meet someone else, someone who can truly appreciate your love and reciprocate it. That man is not me.”