Dear Rarity
Twilight stared at parchment. Two words. Two words she wrote before staining the paper with her emotions. With her magic, she grabbed a tissue from the box beside her inkwell and dabbed her eyes. She sighed, tossing aside the parchment and grabbing a new one. How many times had she written this letter? It must have been the first or second; it was just her name.
Rarity.
Twilight considered how such a name could roll of a tongue.
A name she had written so many times, since the finest days of her life. Ponyville.
To think she wanted a change of pace. To think Ponyville wasn’t enough for Twilight and Ponyville wasn’t enough for Rarity. Twilight almost caught herself giggling at herself, but the joy that sparked upon her muzzle melted instantly into sagging lips under a storm cloud.
Rarity.
A name she pressed upon her daylight lips so many times, so far in the past. A name haunting her dreams, walking her nights louder than Luna. A name she mourned to say again.
Dear Rarity,
How has Manehattan been? Sales spectacular as always? Did you get a chance to check out the MPL yet? I know you say you’re just there for work, but come on, Rarity! You’re staying at the heart of the largest library system in Equestria! Millions of ponies are envious!
Maybe not millions, strictly speaking. But the MPL is fantastic, Rarity! I wish I could be there with yo
Twilight drooped, dropping her quill, drunk in memories. Black ink spilled from the tip of the feather, smudging the letters into an incoherent mess of emotion, staining the teardrops and tearing her heartstrings into paper. Another parchment ruined, another letter to write, another bottle of ink to purchase, another quill. Twilight dejectedly tossed the latest casualty towards the stack behind her, growing ever higher, the letters from adjacent drafted letters whirling into the mess of Twilight’s mind.
Another late night, another letter, another lamia in her soul.
If anypony has a soul, she quipped to herself. She sighed. If I have a soul.
Dear Rarity,
What have you been up to on your side of the world? I have to confess, life on the Arbitration Committee in Canterlot has been wonderful. You know what the delegations say – time flies when you’re having fun! I can’t believe I haven’t seen you in
How long had it been, Twilight wondered. Days? Months? Weeks? Hours? Years? Life on the Arbitration Committee was eventful, alright. Certainly distracting, Twilight thought. She wondered if Rarity could squint through her paper thin lies and make eye contact with the mare behind the words.
Rarity was always so cheerful in her replies. Always so happy.
How long had it been since she had been happy. Twilight glanced over beside her desk to her calendar, home of crossed-off boxes filled with illegibly tiny letters. Around one box – among the boxes of the past, behind in line many others – Twilight had drawn a series of tiny hearts. In large print, in stark contrast to the boxes besides, was a series of capital letters in her neatest flowing hornwriting: “RARITY VISITS”.
“Two, four, six…” Twilight mumbled under her breath, soon interrupted by a torrent of sniffling and a blotch on her calendar among one of the crossed boxes. She buried her face in her hooves. “Too many dies,” Twilight moaned. “Days. Dies. Days.” On other days, there might have been amusement about the slip, a wordplay in line, a quip.
On that day, Twilight cried.
Dear Rarity,
Is everything okay? I know you usually post me letters every Wednesday. It’s okay if you’re busy – obviously you’re busy, you’re practically the most popular mare in Manehattan – I’m really okay if you’re just busy – I just want to make sure everything’s okay, because it’s Saturday
Was it Saturday? Twilight had a meeting with a noble pony that morning to discuss the proposed environmental policy reform. It must have been a Friday; nopony would meet to discuss policy on a Saturday.
Twilight would. What’s one more day in the life?
It didn’t really matter what day it was, Twilight thought. Rarity’s letter was still late.
It was fine.
Really.
Twilight was one-hundred percent, absolutely, without a doubt in the world, fine.
She just needed another piece of parchment to prove it.
Dear Rarity,
She stared at the smudged ink, a teardrop embedded in paper, left on the losing side of a mental tug-of-war between her mind and her heart. She sighed, kept the parchment on the table, letters running, dipped her quill into ink, and let the black excess drizzle over the header. She inhaled to quench the flow of tears, and pressed on.
Dear Rarity,
I’m sorry my letter is late. I didn’t mean to worry you. I’ve been overwhelmed with diplomatic duties. Service to Equestria, you know how it goes.
She stared at the words she produced, empty in meaning, lies even she could see through. She could lie to the Princesses. She could lie to Shining Armor. She learned, easiest of all, she could lie to herself.
But she couldn’t lie to Rarity.
She scribbled over the words, striking out the shell of a pony they painted. She kept the same parchment on the table, and pressed on.
I’m sorry. I know I’ve told you Canterlot has been wonderful. I know I’ve said I’m so happy for you in Manehattan. I know I said I’m fine. I know I said I don’t need you to visit me.
I’m sorry. I know I lied to you, and I’m sorry, and I know I already said “sorry” way more times than any normal pony would, but Rarity, I can’t do this anymore.
You’re the love of my life, and I want you to be happy.
I want you happy to know I’m happy.
But I can’t keep up the lies
I miss you, Rarity. I miss you more than you can imagine, although I’m sure you’re trying. I miss you and the girls. I miss talking to other ponies about literally anything but public policy.
I thought I loved public policy.
She dabbed her eyes.
I thought I loved public policy, but I love you more.
I’m sorry for being the wreck I am, for being a terrible friend, and a terrible girlfriend, and I’m sorry.
If that’s even what we are anymore. You’ll probably tell me we are. You’ll probably tell me I have nothing to apologize for.
I won’t believe you. I’m sorry.
I love you, Rarity, and I confess I’m writing this at 2 a.m. because I don’t see the point in going to sleep.
At least when I’m awake in bed, writing under candlelight or hornlight, at least I can keep you in my thoughts.
Twilight set down the quill. She levitated the scroll in her magic, incomplete and incoherent, and prepared to toss it to the pile behind her, like every other time she tried to tell Rarity the truth.
But it was 2 a.m., time of no inhibitions. In a burst the scroll disappeared with her magic. Sent. Irretrievable. Gone.
Her pupils dilated, and her breathing accelerated into a stampede. Nevertheless, she cut the light and crawled into bed, clutching her pillow, in a desperate attempt to fall asleep amid the noise.
She awoke to a letter on her bedside table.
Dearest Twilight
