April 28th, 1940.

{Writing}

Dear, Harry:

Not much to say. Not much to really do. I went to the bakery today, but Barbara wasn't there. I almost forgot it was Sunday. I guess my mind just isn't really in the right place at the moment.

For a while now, I've just been distracted. Like my mind can't process anything. I feel like my mind might as well just explode if I can't even process a single thing that goes on in my mind. I don't even know why I try anymore. I can barely think of what to write to you
anymore.  First it was easy, but now it's like my mind is just clouded.

It's been too long. I just miss you so much. Please, I know you can't really come home now, but just one letter, just one write back, and I'll be glad.