You'll never read this, and I think that's why I'm writing it. To you, I was never real. To you, this will never be real. At one point, I was arrogant enough to say that you raped me, but I had to rethink it. That wasn't what it was. There wasn't enough emotion in you for that. From rape, your crime turned into simply using me for your own ends. The rightness or wrongs of your actions can never be determined, because I truly think that you know in your heart the truth about what you did. Stop hiding from yourself. I accept what happened, and I accept it with the knowledge that I can't hate you for it. It was mostly my fault.

It has been two and a half years since that night. I am no longer angry. In fact, I stopped caring a long time ago. Since you, there have been many wonderful people who, like you, have made me realize I am beautiful. However, unlike you, they do not leave in the morning and break every promise they ever made to me. To be sure, they hurt me, just as I have hurt them. But they, at least, do not have any false pretenses about what's going to happen in the future. When they walk away, they don't tell me they'll be back. They don't lie like you.

I'm sure most of what I feel in connection with you is based on myself: my insecurities about my childhood, my looks, my life. They all got banished by you, and when you left in the morning, they came rushing back, ten times worse. You are four years older than me, making you seventeen when it happened. I'm not even seventeen yet, but I know that when I am, I will not treat people the way you treated me. I have more compassion and understanding for the human race than to do that to anyone, and I feel more love in my heart than you will ever have the joy of knowing.

I would like to ask you for some things back, though. I would like you to return my ability to love without fear of rejection. I would like you to give me my ability to feel physical pleasure back. I would like you to bestow upon me the innocence that you took. Most of all, perhaps, I would like all those hours that I spent thinking of you, loving the idea of you, returned to me as soon as you read this letter. Because I can think of a million things I'd rather do than tell myself that it's ok, what you did, and that I will live. That's what I have to do, every time I think about you. I have to convince myself that life will go on.

And I know that it will. I've never been happier, or more together. I've been severing old connections, lately, getting rid of that unhealthy emotional trash. You represent the one person whom I can not confront, call, write, e-mail, or cry about any more. And the more I think about it, the more I realize, you are the one person whom I do not NEED to confront, on any level. Because all you are lives in me. I haven't seen you since that night in April, so long ago. I pray to God that I never see you again, because I have nothing left to say to you.

I am not angry, Sheridan. I am nothing to you. I have no feelings left about you. And that is how I have always wanted it to be.

Goodbye.

Felicity