a Close and yet Distant Friend

I used to look forward to his letters, my only connection to the outside world. Becoming more and more dependent on him, I felt a sort of comfort that can only be found in revealing your true self to a person. To him, I revealed my soul, my very essence. He seemed to understand, sympathize, when I recounted tales I would never tell another. Writing to my masked friend, I could let the words flow from my heart to my fingers with no fear of holding back. 1

Dismal days passed slowly, sadly, mundanely, as I waited and waited for school to end, my only hope of happiness in him, in his letters. His words, the sunshine in my dreary life, drove me on, giving me faith that life was worth living, if only for the few moments it took for me to read his words, such plain, simple, sweet words. 2

Slowly but surely, I began noticing how little he revealed to me about himself. While I poured out my soul, he kept to himself. Despite his kindness and understanding, I began to wonder if he even cared. So before he could leave me and my clingy neediness, I drew back from him, keeping my letters short and to the point. Practically non-responsive correspondence passed between us for a time. I told myself I didn’t need him and his words. I didn’t need a stranger, a close and yet distant friend. 3

Then we stopped writing completely. 4

I don’t know who wrote the last letter, the final, meaningless words, but there was never a goodbye, never a farewell of final closure. 5