He writes with black ink pens, the letters smeared and scrawled haphazardly across the lined paper.
She writes with wooden pencils, eraser shavings scattered across her desk.
His room is messy but he knows where everything is.
Her favorite things are tea and summer and flower pots in the windowsill.
He speaks kindly and looks downward with his large dark eyes.
She smiles widely and kisses dogs.
He likes to walk across stone bridges and throw rocks into infinity.
She loves handwritten letters from him.
He loves to write them.