dear person i knew once,

I was planning on kind of telling you off, insisting that you aren't worth my time anyway and I don't care that you have so unceremoniously ended our friendship of seven years without any actual notification and have a nice life thank you the most very much. I think you'd just gain some satisfaction from that, since it would be pretty obvious that I do care about our apparently ended friendship, enough to write a public letter-blog even.

Instead, I very earnestly want you to know, you are worth my time-- or at least, you have been worth my time when you were nice and squishy and my friend and filled with endless "Who loves you, baby?"s. You were worth my time when you sent me flowers to congratulate me for a performance you had to miss. You were worth my time when I was sad and feeling hopeless about all those boys who really weren't worth my time, just like you said, and I wrote your name in my scriptures next to a verse you suggested to me. You were worth my time when you read my blog and told me I was good, and all those times when you said I was unappreciated as an actress. You were worth my time when you read my friend's blog and then decided you loved her and I went with you to buy her jewelry. You were worth my time that night you texted and told me to be with her, even though I knew you were miserable too, and I wanted you to know that. Genuinely.

We were friends for seven years after a misunderstanding was smoothed over, and I asked you to that dance because I really did want to go with you. I promise. We ate ice cream and watched lots of movies at your parents' house. You called my parents by their first names, which is typical of you, but it made me feel happy anyway. You were sad when my dog died. She liked you, you know. You wrote a movie once, in about 800 drafts, and I was going to be in it since you said the character was based on me, even though the character was called Kelly. I went to all those concerts in your backyard and our friend's backyard, and we talked online very late at night. We talked about critical theories sometimes. You're smart, and you know it, and I'm smart too. It was nice to feel smart together, even when I suspected that you might feel smarter than me (which isn't a truth-- you're just different smart. I hope you accept that).

I do want you to have a nice life. I want you to be happy, and I know you can be. Maybe you are happy. You keep writing as if you are, though I've noticed you've been sick lately from status updates and things. I have kept track of you, even though you don't really want anything to do with me, I think. My updates are still public if you ever want to check, since you won't see anything automatically now.

I know you think I had adverse opinions about you that I'd never say. For what it's worth, I didn't. Still don't, really, except for when you say mean things about people I love-- including yourself. I like that you are who you are, without apology, almost to a fault. You think, and study, and make decisions, and stand up for yourself and other people. I'm not even mad that you put opinions in my head and words in my mouth. I'm mostly just sad about it. I thought you knew me better than that, to know that I wouldn't think or say those things about you. Maybe we grew apart more than I thought.

I know you've thought some adverse things about me and mine, too. It doesn't matter how I know. I know sometimes you say mean things about people behind their backs. We all do. I've known for a while that you probably say mean and untrue things about me. It's okay. I don't know why you think those things. I'm happy. My people make me happy. My marriage makes me happy. Whether or not you understand or think I'm wrong or misinformed or blinded, I'd hope you'd be happy for me, being happy. I'd hope you'd trust my decisions and my choices and my husband. I try very hard to trust you and yours (sans husband-- though if you had one, I'd try to trust that too).

I guess I'm not really sure why we have to end. I kind of knew it would happen. I don't resent it. But I did know, all the way back in March to some extent. And while I know our end has mostly to do with my best friend, I guess we probably would have ended anyway. We're different people than we were seven years ago, though I never thought our differences were exactly irreconcilable. I kind of always thought you'd be you and I'd be me, and we'd bounce along together with a sort of mutual understanding and respect for the person we've cared for such a long time. I know you think I take her "side" with everything, but I don't. I'm not sure there's a "side" to be had. I talk to her a lot. I'm with her a lot. I know how she feels about you and about things, but I also know how I feel about you. I didn't really think my friendship with another person would permanently get in the way of us. It hasn't in the past, though I know how you feel about many of my other long-time friends.

It might go to your head, this letter-blog, but as much as I love you, you need to know I'm not going to fall at your feet. I'm not going to leave a zillion comments on your blog or text you eighty times, only so you can tell someone else how needy and annoying I am. I have people who want me. I can turn to them. But I'll gladly turn to you again, when you want me, when our history means something to you, when I'm not so easily forgotten by merely removing me from your blog roll and friend's list and probably from your phone, too.

Maybe it's sentimental. And maybe it's inappropriate to declare publicly. And maybe you won't even read this, or maybe you will and you'll resent it. Or maybe you'll read it and all those things about us being friends will remind you that de-friending a person is a very sad and symbolically final sort of thing. One little click has made a clear impression on me, because you made an impression on me. You continue to make an impression on me, or I wouldn't even be writing this.

You're money, baby. You're so money, and you don't even know it.

Love,
Emily