Dear Larxene

I write you in relation to a matter of greatest urgency and perfect secrecy. It is for that reason that I ask you to remove yourself from whatever public place you read your mail. I also must urge you not to share this letter with Axel, and especially not Marluxia.

I continue under the assumption that you have relocated to a secluded hall of the Castle. Larxene, by commanding this matter into your hands, I lay my fate and indeed the very nature of my soul (if indeed Nobodies have souls) prostrate before you.
There is an ache growing in my empty chest which no medicine seems to sate. I have taken the matter to Vexen and Lexaeus, but they were ignorant to any possible causes.
I pursued the solution on my own in the world that never was and, at great personal risk, borrowed the Superior’s private research. From his dangerous experiments on himself and his fellows, the exulted Superior found that when a Nobody tries to feel emotion, he or she will experience a sharp physical pain. This hurt is often in proportion to the magnitude of attempted emotion.
Around you, Larxene, I began to feel a twinge, a slight twist in my chest. A blooming want for emotion, if you will. This minor annoyance only escalated when we began working together in Castle Oblivion. It’s become crippling Larxene; I can’t repress it any longer, this need to love with no feeling behind it. Perhaps it’s the electricity in your laugh, or the o-zone in your eyes, but your very presence builds a pressure in me, the way air gets heavy with anticipation before a thunderstorm.
Perhaps this letter will slacken your hold on my thoughts. I doubt it though; even remembered emotion is too strong to be conveyed in mere ink-on-paper. There is a certain music to it Larxene; if only you could feel the same! But that’s too much to ask for, isn’t it? That you would share my pain, my music? The most I can ask for is your respect. Please don’t laugh in your shining way. Please don’t toss this letter away emptily.
It’s almost funny; this little exposé. It’s not something I could predict, or scent my own capacity for. You’ll have to forgive me for rambling, Larxene. It is hard to be at the mercy of another, and now, more than ever, my future is shackled to your whim. There is not much else I can say to you, other than to please, please think no less of me for this.

Zexion