Typeset is a middle-aged unicorn stallion with a beige coat and a bright blue mane and tail which he keeps short and neat. He lives upstairs from a small calligraphy and print shop he runs in Manehattan. The location isn't great; he has to travel halfway across the city for ink and paper, and business is slow, but it was the best he could find in an area where the rent wasn't astronomical. His prices were steep, but he made up for it with the quality of his work. Most of his patrons were those "hip" young ponies from uptown who liked to pay extra to feel like they were rediscovering some lost art, and that was fine by him. It made up for the at-cost work he did for his neighbors--window signs for the latest sales at the other shops, a local weekly student newspaper, and the occasional lost pet flyer.
The storefront was closed today. Typeset had something weighing on his mind for some time now, and he finally decided that today he would put his thoughts into writing. He sat at his desk by the window looking out over the street. In the corner his wastebasket was halfway full with crumped pages, and half-again as many littered the floor around it.
Ink dripped from his quill as it hovered in his green aura above the latest fresh page. It soon found itself amidst the pile around the wastebasket and replaced with a clean sheet.
He started over. This time he resolved to skip the salutation as it had proven difficult to get past the word "Dear" and he couldn't think of anything that wasn't either too formal or too familiar.
I don't even know if I'll send this when it's finished
This time it landed inside the bin.
I didn't think this much time would pass before
Closed his eyes, took a deep breath, set his quill back in his inkwell, then tore the page into confetti.
I miss you.
Typeset stared at those words and sighed. They were true. But was that period correct? It's easy enough to turn it into a comma.
I miss you, but
This one bounced off the rim of the basket and skittered off along the baseboard.
I miss you, and
He stood up and paced around his apartment. He made his bed for the sixth time that day. Fitted sheets were always a struggle, and these ones weren't sized properly for the thicker mattress he'd gotten. He sat back down at his desk then immediately got back up to refill his glass of water.
I miss you, and I HOPE I NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN
The crumpled ball of paper smashed into the pile on his floor and scattered a dozen others in all directions.
I don't know what we had, but I felt comfortable with you like I've never felt with anyone else. And it lasted so much longer than anything I've had with anypony else. These past months without you, you've been in my thoughts every day. I've felt this way before and I know it'll fade in time, though it'll never completely go away
Typeset didn't even bother balling this one up. He just slid it off the edge of his desk and took out a new page.
I hope you're well. I know you were having a rough time, and I tried the best that I knew how to be supportive for you. I'm sorry I'm not very good at it. And I'm sorry I haven't tried to say something to you sooner. Honestly, I'm ~~afraid~~ scared of you. The last time we spoke, what you said felt like you trying to be hurtful. I was still reeling from our previous fight, and
There was a thud as Typeset banged his face onto the desk. "Where am I even going with this?" he muttered. He sighed as he sat up straight and tossed the page over his shoulder, not even remotely in the direction of the wastebasket.
I miss you.
You saw me in a way that nopony else has and you embraced me.
We had a companionship that I never knew I wanted in my life, and I grieve its loss.
Over the past few years, and especially in just this last year, I've felt you becoming angry--not at me, I know, but I don't know how to deal with that. I thought I could just be your friend, be someone you could trust and come to for support. I made mistakes, and they only made things worse between us. It got to a point where I felt I couldn't say anything. You'd start ranting and I couldn't speak up, or if I could get a word in, it would be too brief and you just dismissed me.
I felt like I couldn't be heard.
Typeset blinked. He read that last sentence again and continued writing.
It occurs to me now that maybe you felt the same way. If you did, I'm deeply sorry.
When you started ranting, it's not that I didn't want to listen to you--and I deliberately held my tongue a number of times to keep from saying that I didn't want to hear that stuff. I never wanted you feel like you couldn't say something to me. It's just that I felt such intense anger and despair from you that I could bear it only by tuning out.
The quill trembled in Typeset's aura, the tip still pressed down on that period, swelling grotesquely as ink soaked into the paper.
I'm a terrible friend. I'm sorry.
Typeset set his quill down, folded the page and set it to the side. He took out a clean sheet and stared at it.
The sun had gone down hours ago. The street lights outside glared in through Typeset's second story apartment windows. He wasn't at his desk anymore. He stood now in front of his mirror. He'd been staring at his reflection for so long that he no longer recognized it as himself. It was just as well. Typeset had been a comfortable life, but his time was up.
A ring of magical green flames swirled up around him, and the image of that unicorn vanished. He had been a facade for the black, chitinous changeling underneath. The green flames swirled around him several more times as he pondered his new face. Perhaps a pegasus this time? He had missed the use of his wings. A zebra maybe? Presenting as an outsider would bring some challenges, but perhaps that would be good for him. A gryphon? The best of both?
He frowned. None of these felt quite right.
Ultimately, he settled on a lime-green unicorn pony. He did his best to appear as nondescript as possible; somepony who could easily disappear into the background while he acquainted himself with his new home and came up with a new name and face to resume his life as.
He didn't bother locking up on his way out. He had his life savings with him, and abandoned all claim to everything else he had owned. It would be enough to take the train to Ponyville and find lodgings there. He heard there was a "friendship school" starting there. It seemed like the kind of place he belonged right now.
There was only one stop to make on the way to the station: the mailbox at the corner.
