Dear _,

You were that one person I idolized. You were that one person that I wanted to know forever, that I wanted to emulate when I grew up. I guess you could say you were my heroine, in more ways than one. You didn't just save me from my parents and my monotone existence, you were my drug. I lived off of your art, off of the magic that your fingers created. And it became more than just an appreciation. I found myself watching your hands with a kind of reverence. It was worship. Pure and simple.

So it hurt all the more, I suppose, when you found someone else to take under your wing. In his defense, he was great. It was just...I couldn't like someone who took you away from me. In retrospect, it's good that he came onto the scene, because I was developing an unhealthy addiction to you. Every day, not just every week or every month, I thought of you. And it wasn't because I saw you every day. It was because I lived off of your art. I lived off of your passion.

There's something you should know about me to understand that. I had no reason to live on my own. I had no passion of my own. You gave me what I needed – something to appreciate, something to love. So I hung on your fingers, I breathed in your quick sketches and devoured your final products. You encouraged it. Perhaps you liked being openly admired, although you had no end of supporters. I gave you enough praise to last you a lifetime, but you never did get too proud.

That was one of the things I loved. You were so humble. So talented. So graceful. And even though you never thought so (although I think you may have changed your mind now that things are different) you're beautiful. But I guess that wasn't enough for you. You had to have more, you had to have what neither of us had when we were growing up. That social factor. That ability to mingle, make friends, wear the right clothes and have the right stories.

Well, you got it. Slowly but surely, you changed, and I can honestly say that now it takes a lot to be more socially adept than you. You're still beautiful. But you sold your original beauty. You cut and trimmed and dieted and slathered your face with makeup...and worst of all, you changed your art. You stopped drawing what you used to love and started taking commissions. People asked you to draw and you did, but the luster was gone. The charm and the allure of each piece was gone.

That's why right now, when I see you, I don't feel the same need to blush and stammer. That's why, instead of calling you whenever I need someone to talk to, I curl up in a ball and stare at my knees. That's why my heart stopped beating faster when your music plays on the radio. Because you're not the same person that I adored.

Don't get me wrong, you're still an incredible artist. But you compromised the very part of you that made you great – your individuality. You fit the mold now. And I, who was hanging on to you as proof that I would not have to conform, now have no assurance that I can make it. I am left to wonder if I will be able to keep myself free from the influence of the outside world. If you had held out, if you had persevered, I would know that I could as well, because we were so similar. But now I doubt myself every step of the way. I fear losing myself more than ever.

And I could blame it on you, but I won't. Because you just did what you wanted to do. You weren't supposed to worry about me. And you don't. So thank you for being there as long as you were – and good bye. I won't come back to you, because we have nothing to say to each other now.