There’s a pile of paper by his bed. He has spent hours searching for the perfect words to say. Scratched out countless lines. None of them are good enough. The feelings are there but the words are not. He tries again. He writes each word meticulously, neatly, making sure every words is legible, every word perfect. He closes “With Love” comma. He signs his name. He reads, re-reads, and reads again. Removes the paper from the pad. And starts over. It’s still not good enough.