danielhill101

In a small back garden in a central borough of London there sat a girl on a bench, she had her head in her hands and there was a faint whimpering coming from her. She was crying. We do not know why she's crying curious reader, but to any person around, it looked like the typical teenage girl crying over a secondary school romance gone awry. Well as it is my job as your humble narrator to tell you a story, I will convey to you her predicament. The troubled girl's name is Milena Ivanov, but to her friends she is Mila. Although from a Russian background, she spoke perfect English. She had no accent and could pass for an English girl. She left R

I write for you and only you, I write these words with hidden meanings for your memories. Our memories. In the hope that someday, you might open a box, look out a window, fall asleep, and remember me. Remember this. We name the ducks, at our pond. Our picture-perfect pond. We name the fish, and the birds. The beautiful garden, which you took me to, where I realised, just how much I adore you. I can't find myself. I'm lost in you.