The letters arrive every Tuesday.

They say the same things.

They smell the same way.

They hold the same grace.

"Jasmine, you have mail!” My roommate yells.

"I know!” I holler back.

It was just one date. Or was it two? After all, it started on Monday evening and spilled over into Tuesday morning.

We walked the streets after dinner. Neither one of us too eager to bid farewell.

A long pause, smiling gently, hesitant to part ways.

Eventually, she asked to walk me home. At my door, we sat on the front steps. When our bums got tired, we stood up, stretched and decided to walk some more.

At the first breath of dawn, we had to bid adieu.

She had to catch a plane.

I had to catch a train.

We had to say goodbye.

We said it with our eyes, with our lips, and with our skin buzzing.

"I think you are my person," she whispered in my ear before I walked away.

The first letter arrived the next Tuesday.