My Darling Lucy,

I pray that you have found this letter without too much undue panic. Perhaps I should be waking you instead of writing this at your dresser, but I believe some things are more readily accepted on paper, and since I shortly have to be at class there simply isn't the time to argue with you.

(Not to mention the sacrilegious act it would be if I deprived your excessive affinity for lying in in the morning.)

But like you, I am lost as to where and how I should begin. It seems impossible to capture everything that last night was in the little time that I have; in this ink of plain black that could never reflect the spectrum of everything that I feel. Truth be told, I can scarcely explain this confusing sense of clarity to myself, but if there is one thing I can assure you of it is that such confusion does not result from any uncertainty of feeling. On the contrary, what I feel is so glaringly stark it truly confounds me that I never thought of you this way before.

I love you, Lucy, as the friend you have always been and now as the lover you have somehow become. It feels so strange to call you that (and honestly it took a nerve-racking minute for me to pen it), but as inexperienced as both you and I might be, I cannot think of what we did as anything else but making love. Easily I could fill this page with all the reasons it was the most incredible night of my life, but in lieu of that, the purpose of this letter is really this:

I have made my decision.

I choose you.

After class I plan on speaking with Jonathan, though what I will say I have no idea. The thought of breaking his heart sickens me, but if the alternative is losing you or never being with you this way again, I could not bear it – would not bear it in all likelihood, and I can only live with myself betraying Jonathan once. Saying that, perhaps the greater betrayal would be to you; one night and you seem to own me in ways I did not think were possible.

I know this must seem hasty; a rash decision made in the afterglow of a night like none I have had before, but as I look at you now in bed I find myself robbed of logic. As girls we used to talk of men; of handsome, gracious men we would one day lose our minds around; men we would fall madly, senselessly in love with. And somehow with maturity there came a solemn acceptance that love was far less consuming than that, but last night, Lucy – last night I did feel consumed, you drove me mad with the things you did, so does it stand then that my absence of logic is a realer mark of being in love?

If I was not so rushed writing this I would have posed that question as a statement.

I know what it is that I feel.

I have not the time to write more but just in case you feel inclined to question my motives; if you think perhaps I might be breaking the promise I made to you last night, know that my reasons are far more selfish than that. For me it is not so much a question of who I can be with, but who I cannot be without.

And I cannot be without you, Lucy.

I hope my words assure you as much as I intend them to; if I have given half to you with this letter what yours gave to me you should be content. Otherwise, if you are in need of more persuasion, visit me at the house at seven.

I will be waiting for you.

Mina

A/N: Thanks for readying, everyone. And a special thanks to my beta, Truly, who did wonders for my confidence. Any and all feedback is welcome, constructive criticism included. I've very much enjoyed this month-long writing endeavour (I write sloowwww), so if anyone feels like flicking me a prompt, you can do so at my tumblr - akira107. I might fill smaller things over there and leave AO3 for longer works like this one. Thanks again!