My dearest,

I can smell the storm from inside my room. It smells like stifled conversation, and music, and purple. And it reminds me of you, in more ways than one. It’s beautiful, for a start, if either boys or storms can be beautiful.

I think they can.

Lightning dances across the sky like the way your eyes sparkle, and the rain-song sounds like your voice. The grey that shrouds the world beyond my window pane is hauntingly beautiful, too. It’s that grey you like; the grey I wish I could take your hand and fly into and dance and laugh and get blissfully lost in with you forever.

Don’t tell Mum, but I’ve left the window open, just a crack. The air sneaks in and swirls around me in a cool, gentle embrace. It almost feels like you’re here. Almost. I wish you were, you know. I wish it every day, and miss you more with each passing minute; with each beautiful, lonely raindrop.

I must go now, Mum’s calling me. Her voice is muffled by the rain-song, and I wish I could ignore it and lie here and think of you, and write to you... Sadly, she is not one to be ignored.

I send you my best wishes and hopes and dreams, and the assurance that soon we’ll be together again. I promise I will be waiting for you when you return.

Perhaps, when a storm comes your way, you could think of me, too?

With all my love,

R.