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Tomorrow night I'm going to be somewhere inside that Halloween event wearing the black mask I bought because of you, and at some point I'm going to find the woman who has occupied an absolutely unreasonable amount of my brain for months.

You'll know it's me.

Fuck, beautiful.

I don't think I'm sleeping tonight.

Yours, and one fucking day away from becoming your problem in person.

P.S. Put the lipstick in your bag tomorrow night. You're probably going to need to reapply it.

October 31

Mine,

A few hours, that's all that's left.

Fuck, sweetheart, I have absolutely no patience anymore.

I've spent two weeks watching you read these letters, watching you blush, swear at me, touch yourself, and finally invite me close enough to put my hands on you.

Tonight I get you awake, looking at me. Touching me back.

I can't fucking wait.

Don't be shy when I find you. Use your words and tell me what you want because I'm done guessing.

If you want me to kiss you, say it.

If you want my hands on you, tell me where.

If you want more, sweetheart, fucking ask for it.

I need your eyes on me. Your hands on me. Your mouth on me.

I need to know what it feels like when all that wanting I've been watching finally gets aimed directly at me.

I'm desperate for you. There. I said it. Completely fucking desperate.

These letters end tonight one way or another. Either whatever this is becomes something real when we're finally standing in front of each other, or we find out it was only ever meant to live on paper.

I don't think it was. You're mine, sweetheart, and I'm fucking yours.

Only a few more hours.

See you soon.

Yours.

November 1

3:17 am

Sweetheart,

So much for yesterday's dramatic declaration about the letters ending tonight.

That lasted well.