I began writing to her when I was ten. She was everything I wanted to be: smart, funny, honest. In our letters I could be who I always thought, always knew that I could be. Only circumstances held me back.
I met you, and thought that you were the perfect man for me. She did not approve. One day I let you read her letters; some of them said unkind things. You asked me to choose; I had to let you go, of course. For how could I admit I'd been writing to myself all of these years?