For the one hundred and forty seventh day in a row, she wrote in her diary, in red, “Saw him again today. Again, he didn’t notice me.” She had decided to write in red until he spoke to her. The redness of her diary was now overwhelming. The staff in the café were getting increasingly impatient. One cup of milky coffee; two hours of sitting, waiting, dreaming of what life would be like with someone to share it with. The irony of her choice of ink colour had never dawned on her. Would she ever get her Red Letter Day?
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