The second letter from Alya. In this one, Alya asks me not to write her about love. The letter is tired.
My dear, my own. Don't write to me about love. Don't. I'm very tired. As you yourself have said, I have come to the end of my tether. This daily grind pulls us apart. I do not love you and I will not love you. I fear your love; someday you will hurt me because of the way you love me now. Don't carry on so. I still feel we have much in common. Don't frighten me! As well as you know me, you still do all you can to frighten me, to repel me. Your love may be great, but it's far from joyful.
I need you; you know how to bring me out of myself. Don't write me only about your love. Don't make wild scenes on the telephone. Don't rant and rave. You're managing to poison my days. I need freedom - I refuse to account for my actions to anyone!
Yet you demand of me all my time. Be light-hearted or else you'll fail, at love. With each day, you grow more melancholy. You should go to a sanatorium, my dear.
I'm writing in bed, because yesterday I went dancing.
Now I'm going to take a bath. Perhaps we'll see each other today.