He knew that genuine relationships can't be founded on such flimsy foundations, that genuine friendships take tremendous amount of time and energy to sustain, to nurture. It can't happen in, say, two or three days. It can't magically emerge from overcoming stimulated difficulties.
Yes, he couldn't helped hoping for more.
He had put in the most effort in composing his little messages. He tried to straddle the line between being brutally honest and politically correct. To reveal himself as who he is, one without embellishment.
He talked about how he failed to strike up conversation with a interesting teacher-to-be as he trailed behind her and deliberated. 'Actually, I was walking behind you, trying to dream up a good way of starting a conversation when the blanket slipped off my grasp and I lost my opportunity. '
He shared concerns for people's disinterest for their own health. He thanked others for looking out after him, congratulated those who dare to passionately follow their dreams.
The results for such hard work was disproportionate to the effort dissipated.
The litany of messages was just polite clones. Mass manufactured, mechanic answers. 'Nice, supportive, encouraging.' So... 2 Dimensional. Flat. Dull. Boring. Plain. Banal.
Politically correct answers by scholars adhering to the very spirit of their contracts - to conduct themselves with all due dignity, decency and decorum.
He had saved the A4 paper to be read in solitude, like a little boy planning to savour a rich chocolate bar in a corner. Tsk tsk. Really, he should know better.