Dear P,

There are roles for which you were perfection. I could think of none other to be the knight marching a drugged princess up the mountainside. Who better than you to face the water zombies slip-slopping out of the ocean? But your pride and your fear of the ordinary made you vile. Oh, you were terrified of anyone not being in awe of your intellect.

So you became a shut-in of your own fantasy world, much like me.

Here’s where our paths diverged: it wasn’t enough for you to believe your invented credentials, no one could challenge them. You became impressed with yourself. We stopped getting along because you were a breathing example of how very wrong I could go. You were every vice of mine, magnified, distorted into something ugly.

The only way I could pretend there was nothing wrong with me was to excise you. Now I wonder what story you tell yourself about our parting. That’s all right. I don’t mind if you blame it all on me. Go on then, let it all out.

(Disclaimer: This is part of the letter series)

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