It started with the thought of impressing you with my words. I was shy and confused. I decided to write to you about what I felt at that moment. You loved my words, and I thought you’d love me if I wrote more.
Next, I read a book and tried to imitate the author’s way of respect for others. It worked, and you became my friend.
Now, I am sending you a letter of proposal expressing my love for you, and I hope you’ll accept it. But in reality, you’ll reject it because it’s my writing.
It’s about the clash of egos. If someone else could have made the same effort, you would have appreciated it more than required, but you can’t accept my idea just because it’s mine.
Still, I’m writing to you because it’s essential. I may start deteriorating without writing to you, and I hate self-destruction.
I think I’ve clarified the whole thing, except, as you said earlier, “I’m good at writing.”
Sorry, I’m not. I’m just figuring out to say something you love to listen to.