[John does not quite know how to send this message. He has tried and failed to compose it over and over in his head, and no words have come. He has had to wait until he is alone first, the pounding of his heart like a drum in his chest as he had waited to be dismissed from his post, excusing himself for the privacy of his room, where he sinks down on his bed and puts his head in his hands.]
forward-dated to early october;
𝓖𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓵𝓽.
𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓸𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓸𝓷𝓬𝓮, 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓼𝓸 𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓰𝓸, 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓶𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓰𝓮𝓽 𝓶𝓮 𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮. 𝓣𝓸 𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓮 𝓒𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓮𝓼. 𝓘𝓯 𝓘 𝓪𝓼𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓽𝓸.