She wasn't the kind of girl who kept love letters, wrapped in pink ribbon, locked in an inlayed wooden box. Not that anyone sent love letters these days.
She would have no wild stories of her youth to tell her neices, no lost loves, no ones who got away.
She was, as she always had been, just her.
She had got so use to being on her own, the proverbial independant woman, that she ended up so afraid, afraid of being any other way.
And so , even though she was still young, she had stopped looking for love letters a long time ago.
And she was fine with this arrangement, everyday, until she was alone, when darkenss came and she would lie curled in her bed wishing there was someone there with her.
She would lie in hope, in waiting, if not in wait, dreaming of a life more lived, a life more loved.
She felt alone more an more lately, facing the world on her own, surrounded by lovers, She wanted so much more, but could not comprehend how to get it, how to make others see her.
And so she remained alone, lost, without a hand to hold.