Dear Maggie

Last night I was dumbstruck by the new Maggie. I recall our talk in the Branson quad, in evening over spring break, and compare it to yesterday's conversation. You prided yourself on compassion back then. You weren't aware of your beauty and it made you shine. You listened, like you say this guy you like does, with your whole being.

Even though your transformation began before it, college did change you Maggie, and it did so in the worst way possible. You've nurtured your mind and its faculties...but dispelled away the charm, the humility, and the empathy. Could you not see how uncomfortable I was in hearing you plow through a lengthy, heavily-romantic tale about you and another guy? A guy that listens unlike any other guy? Whose nerdy divinity was so attractive that in five minutes of kissing him you were so emotionally lost that only a week later you were set on waiting three months for him to fuck his ex-girl before coming to you?

Was your intention to punish me for not being enough; for not playing 'hard to get'? Was it to so laboriously build a wall between us that I would never dream we could be again? Or was his allure so hideously powerful you failed to see the possible outcomes of your words?

Long before that, though, you began twisting me around. Flaking on me, using me when it was convenient for you but never making the time for me. Did you actually think I wanted to feel you up at 6 a.m. when you were as active in my arms as a cadaver? When my touch couldn't arouse you to passion the fact that you let it persist, that you shrugged it off like watching an addict feed his vice, drove me to the brink and yet, still, I thought it could be changed by a conversation in the summer. I thought that with time the former you would reappear, the girl I was prepared to love if only time and circumstance would lend me the opportunity.

I didn't intend to lie last night when I said we would be friends. That was, first, before you drained the last dregs of companionship I felt for you, and second, at a time when my numb mind could compute no other outcome than to merely survive, and then flee. Let me note, I don't hate you. I don't feel sorry for you, or for me. I don't love you. I'm not angry you chose someone else over me - I expected it, and allowed room for it to happen. As I always said, you aren't mine to keep. zBut now that the tale is written, that the book is completed to be inspected from the distance of time, it hurts me to see that you never redeemed yourself in my eyes. The ending will suspend for eternity. After the first three lovely weeks and that one perfect night, when you were everything important and I existed for you, I was blind to the permanence of your new flaws.

Enjoy your summer, enjoy Barnard. Maybe you won't let this picture gather dust in the dark like I would.