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Dear Karen,

If you’re reading this it means I actually worked up the courage to mail it, so good for me. You don’t know me very well, but if you get me started I have a tendency to go on and on about how hard the writing is for me. But this, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write.

There’s no easy way to say this so I’ll just say it, I met someone. It was an accident, I wasn’t looking for it, I wasn’t on the make—it was a perfect storm. She said one thing, I said another. Next thing I knew, I wanted to spend the rest of my life in the middle of that conversation. Now there’s this feeling in my gut: She might be the one.

She’s completely nuts, in a way that makes me smile—highly neurotic, a great deal of maintenance required. She is you, Karen. That’s the good news. The bad is that I don’t know how to be with you right now, and that scares the shit out of me. Because if I am not with you right now, I have this feeling we will get lost out there. It’s a big, bad world full of twists and turns, and people have a way of blinking and missing the moment—the moment that could’ve changed everything. I don’t know what’s going on with us, and I can’t tell you why you should waste a leap of faith on the likes of me. But damn you smell good, like home. And you make excellent coffee; that’s got to count for something, right?

Call me.

Unfaithfully Yours,
Hank Moody