Once, in her diary she wrote a letter. It wasn't a love letter, because he didn't love her back. But it was filled with the same devotion and strength all love letters have. After, she ripped the page out from her diary and kissed it with same passion she would have kissed him, then folded it neatly in two and placed the letter deep within her sock drawer. There, she safely hide part of her soul: it was embedded in the ink, tucked within the little moist stain her lip gloss had made, stored in the crease of the fold. And as she grew older, tried to move on, and gradually forgot about the letter, her broken soul clung to its yellowing corners. It was many years later when she was all grown up, graduated from high school and came back to move all her stuff out of her old bedroom when she found the letter again. She felt its soft edges and raised surface and remembered the furious passion and love that she had felt for this boy. And the part of soul that she had hidden, stirred. It tried to grab out for her, to reclaim that passion, it tried to remind her heart. But it fell short. It didn't fit. It no longer belonged to her. She wasn't the same girl who had written the letter. And so, the soul sighed and released its grip and settled back into the words on the page, back into the memory of the boy's smooth lips and dark hair and irresistible laugh. She let out a long slow sigh and started to laugh, because she felt whole again