I’d written letters to Violet every week, and lately, multiple times a week for the past year. We’d started polite. Her early letters had been cautious, explaining her roommate had made her sign up for the program because it would be a good dinner party conversation and her life was otherwise pretty dull. I’d started the same, my letters stiff and formal. But somewhere along the way, both of us had started opening up. Week by week, I’d begun craving her letters. I read them over and over. Could practically hear her voice in my head, even though I’d never heard it in real life.
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