"The ease with which you let go of me reminds me of nobody but myself. I prided myself in being so detached that letting go was second nature to me. For you, it is the first. At least that is what I felt. I wasn’t heartbroken. I wasn’t in love with you, yet. But I was falling. Slowly, very agreeably, even happily. It did steal away some happiness. I am not sure if it was difficult for you to tell me no. It’s over, this thing is never going to happen again, you’d said. Your voice seemed sure, but the day later, I sensed residual affection. You were unsure. No, no more. Maybe, maybe."

The complete letter in the caption.

- Shambovine