
Odd as it may seem, even before the letters began, we were connected through writing. Though I'll still tell anyone it wasn't any good, he'd probably tell the same people different. But I didn't hardly know him them, so why should I write him letters? What was the tug on my heart to stay in touch? To connect to this soldier who held onto my eyes for a moment? Coincidence? Says me if I'm being stupid. Or when I'm trying to avoid something I know to be true. I didn't even know him then; not quite in the way I know him know now. But I knew he needed at least a letter. And then there was the matter of the question that has yet to be asked. And it is that question that yet begs that keeps me writing letters for this soldier.
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