Octy,

It's been about a year now, hasn't it? I was moving the couch a month or two back and found one of those day-planners of yours under it. How time flies, right?

I've been keeping up with the same old. Gigs. Putting the laundry off a week longer than I should. Took a trip to Maresachusetts, just out and back. Knock that off my bucket list. Saw the ocean and stuff. You'd have liked it, I think. Old-timey. Some parts weren't so great, but you had a way of looking past those bits.

This summer I tried one of those 'patio gardens' you talked about, but it didn't take off. Stupid squirrels ripped every single plant out of the pots. You'd have had a fit with the mess! I haven't gotten around to cleaning it up yet, but you probably guessed that. It's on my to-do list.

Now, you said not to contact you again, but there's this cello in the living room, and it isn't mine. I can't use it, I can't just leave it, and I can't bring myself to pitch it break it or burn it, so some day here I'm going to have the mailpony come with a coffin of a box and send it back to you. Assuming that this is still your address. I've been avoiding your street, I'll have you know.

If this isn't your address, I guess somepony's going to be a little confused, huh?

[s]Celestia damn[/s]

Celestia damn you to Tartarus, Octy, you couldn't even come back for your stupid cello. What was so horrible that you couldn't even manage that?

I trusted you. I cared about you. We were friends, Octy. Close friends. We mattered to one another. Then your dad gets sick, I get stressed, and what? Suddenly you don't trust me? Can't stand me?

"Ponies change," what in Tartarus is that supposed to mean? That has got to be the dumbest, most insulting basis for ending a friendship I've ever heard of. And I'm a musician, so I've heard a lot of stupid, insulting ends. So why? You've had a year to breathe, a year to rewrite your story, a year to

A year to I don't even know what, because I did what you asked, Octy. I stayed away, just like you wanted.

I did what you asked, and I'm still finding your stupid day-planner and there's a cello sleeping on my couch, and I don't even know what happened! You've had a year to find the words, but you're so stubborn that you haven't even tried, have you.

I miss you Octy. I get up an hour to noon, and there's no needling letter reminding me that it's my turn to make dinner. I come back from a gig, and for dinner it's leftovers from any of my lame carry-out last week. I get invited to chill, and I don't trust what they want out of me. They say my music's better than it's ever been.

Take your stupid cello.

V