text: 2015-10-12 My dear friend, I’ve been laying in bed for hours, trying to organize my maelstrom of thoughts. I haven’t put my heart into words in so many years. You know something is wrong. So very wrong. I almost let it slip last night. I did, really - I told you in explicit terms, then passed it off as a joke. It was the alcohol speaking. I was being silly. I just wanted your reaction. I gave you any number of excuses to stop you from pressing further. I still don’t know why I said it. Part of me wants you to keep pushing. To confront me. To make me explain why I’d say something so wildly absurd. What if you did? Could I tell you my story? The entire tale? You would expect complete honesty, and you’d deserve it. You would tell me what I want to hear; that nothing matters, that I mean the world to you, and that I’d always be your closest friend. You would throw it all aside, hug me, and tell me that it’s okay. I’m sorry. I can’t give you that honesty. Not to your face. I value you too much to risk losing you from my life. You’re a creative young woman. It is the origin of our friendship. Maybe you’ll find this letter - the first of many - buried among a thousand other short stories, and maybe you’ll see the author shares my name. Maybe you’ll wonder if just one of these fictional tales could be based in reality. I’ll always be your friend.