It is the New Year. 1889. I don't know why I continue to write these letters when I know quite well by now that I will never send them. I keep them, you know. I suppose I am sentimental in a way. I still often miss you, even now. I remember once you accused me of having ignored you for months. I guess a part of me was hoping that this was sort of like that.

I remember that the reason for that was because of that tiff we had in March of 1888. I guess we're both sensitive about our respective family situations. Maybe we wouldn't have fought if we were able to talk it out a bit more. Be a bit more mature about it. But I am sure you would be the first to say that there is nothing mature about me. You weren't really the type to hold back and I liked that.

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