Dearest Best Friend,

I have just finished reading ‘Howards End’ by E.M. Forster. I have real fears that you have bits of Mr. Wilcox in you— bits of self-righteous condescension and flippant dismissal and misguided paternal feelings— and that these bits will only magnify themselves as you grow older. In this world, people consider only the outward displays of life— the flashes of anger, the harried sending of telegrams— as living. You have already fallen prey to this idea, this supposedly commendable habit of being preoccupied with doing things over actually thinking things. Doing things vigorously and impressively has trumped thinking things truthfully and sincerely.

You brush me off when it suits you, and you fawn over me when you feel like you wouldn’t mind the reciprocated affection. You somehow distort sticky situations so that I end up apologizing for your mistakes as if they’d been results of my own thoughtlessness. You are shameless— you lie, simper, grin, cajole, coax. You don’t realize the depth of my resentment, because you don’t find it worth your time to acknowledge it.

I believe that you will change, little by little— if at least by osmosis. I want to change you, even though I know how inappropriate and futile such a desire is.

There are parts of you that almost make up for the rest. You are fiercely intelligent, even more fiercely clever. You pick up on the often overlooked details of life— the sidelong glance, the snide remark. You cannon-ball into everything— new experiences, overused apologies, inappropriate jokes.

But I don’t want to be a Margaret. I don’t want to lose myself to being your friend, all because you yourself can’t stand to give up any part of yourself. You forget that I too am fiercely intelligent, sometimes fiercely clever. I pick up on things you would never notice— that off-hand punchline, the Mean Girls allusion, the tongue-in-cheek compliment. I cannon-ball into everything— awkward conversations, telephone poles, the works.

You should see that I give up things, too.