Dear Carmen,

            I know you don’t wish to see me. That is fine, though I wish I would have been enough to change your mind on this matter. But, I know that you’re a strong woman, and yes, you might not need a woman to support you in your business. I know you don’t, I’ve heard so much about you, your intelligence, your maturity, your beauty… I couldn’t help to think I might be able to break your walls. I know what it’s like, to put those walls in defensive because no one who has ever been in has been good. They never see the real you. But, Carmen, I understand you don’t want to see me, but maybe you can read me Carmen, because I’m an open book here, waiting for you to let me see you.

                                                                                                Love,

                                                                                                A lonely star.

Carmen sat there, staring at the letter tentatively. She let her finger trace the words that were written neatly in ink. This letter was perfect in every sense, the letter folded carefully, writing neat yet hand written, words so carefully written Carmen is inclined to trace them with her finger tip, and Carmen finds herself focusing on 2 words: lonely star…

…

Carmen spends the next week wondering whether she should reply, she shows no one the letter, feeling it was too personal for anyone to see, even though her mother was sad, she couldn’t let anyone see it. Finally one late night, when after years of never looking, she looks up at the stars and makes her choice.

Dear Lonely Star,

          You wish to see me you say? How can you see me through words and letters? How can you know what my beauty holds when pictures can be deceiving? How can you expect me to let you through my walls that you say I barricade myself in? It seems you make so many assumptions of me, it looks like you’ve seen what you’ve wanted to see so far… You say you’re an open book, are those words you speak to me those of lines you have spoken to others, for I too have heard of you, heard of your womanizing ways, how could I love a woman who seems to love all women.