There is a part of me that I never showed you. A part of me that you didn’t know existed. A part of me that is willful and strong. A part of me that is inexplicably loud. You once mentioned that you loved that I wasn’t complicated. That everything came easy with me. That I was soft to the touch. That I made you feel like you could do anything. The truth is that while you enjoyed the stillness and silence, I hated every moment of it. I know it’s my fault for not saying anything but how could I? You were so happy. It made me happy to see you that happy. That was the problem. In my convoluted imagination I was some sort of muse. I became what I thought you wanted me to be rather than the makings of who I actually was. I molded into a concept of your own design. I let it happen. I watched as you chattered and bounced from place to place. I followed. I liked being your muse. It gave me a sense of purpose. And when I saw you smile, that sheepish grin, I never questioned it. Your happiness became my happiness. Your success, my success. Somewhere along the way, I started to lose my sense of self. I noticed that when we were busy building parts of you up, I was neglecting my own ego. I found it hard to sleep. I found it hard to eat. I found everyday social interaction, unbearable. It’s as if I had completely forgotten how to be myself. I started to grow cold and weary at the idea of being around you. I hated it. I felt trapped. When I told you I couldn’t be with you, there was confusion. My tears made you think that you had wronged me in some malevolent way. Truthfully you never intentionally hurt me. How could you? You didn’t even know me.