I had a penpal once, and her name was Daring Do. Yes, that's actually her name—this was long before any of the stories. Part of me would like to believe those stories are actually about her real-life adventures, even though that's ridiculous.

Our relationship started off innocently enough. There was a penpal-matchmaking service for foals, and I signed up. We were randomly assigned to a partner. I lived here in Ponyville, and she lived in Neighagra Falls. Initially we would write to each other on a weekly basis.

Daring Do attended a boarding school, and she hated it there. True to her name, she dreamed about having all sorts of crazy adventures—you know, the kind that only exist in books. Of course, those fantasies were never meant to be, so instead she took up pen and expressed herself through the written word.

I remember the first story she sent me through the mail. Even though it was a short story, it had to be shipped as a package because it was too large to stuff into a letter. "The Ghost of Ponyville", it was called. Clearly she'd personalized it just for me, right? It was a horror story and it chilled me to the bone. I never much cared for fiction before that moment. Until then, I didn't realize simple words on a page could make you feel things.

That's how Daring Do inspired me to become a writer.

I spent a lot of time practicing, but writing is hard. We would send each other incomplete manuscripts by mail and compare notes. I rarely had anything to say about what she wrote, because I liked it all, but she was extremely critical. The criticism hurt at first, but she kindly explained that critique was necessary to become a better writer. So I absorbed as much as I could, and over time my work began to improve. She also encouraged me to get in touch with other writers in Ponyville, and that made a huge difference in my life.

Her responses dried up once or twice, but after a drought she'd tell me she was busy. She reassured me that she was still reading and reviewing everything I sent her. I didn't mind the quiet periods, anyway. The writing I did was more cathartic than reading her responses.

We were both pretty young at the time. I needed somepony to vent frustrations to, so my letters occasionally contained personal stuff. I would tell her about my family and friends, my hopes and dreams. I had a crush on a colt who'd just earned his cutie mark, and I didn't spare her any of the details. Daring was blunt to the point of being crude, so I felt comfortable telling her whatever was on my mind. To be fair, I was like this with my other friends too; she wasn't a confidant or anything. She was just a fun pony to share things with that most other ponies wouldn't understand.

After a year or two, I stopped getting replies from her, but this had happened before so I wasn't concerned. Then, the letter came. It was very brief:

Hay, look. I haven't been reading any of your letters or stories since that thing you sent several months ago about your coltfriend or whatever—that was really not my cup of tea. I'm moving out soon (expelled but okay, long story), so your letters will start getting returned if you keep sending them. But don't stop writing fiction, you're good! –DD

At first I was numb and angry, but that passed almost immediately. She was under no obligation to read my letters, after all. She could have told me sooner, but I'm not sure she needed to tell me at all. I just enjoyed the process of writing her, so it didn't really matter if she was reading what I wrote. I guess we'd just grown apart.

I'm sorry for taking up so much of your time, Twilight Sparkle, so let me get to the point. It was a very long time ago, and a lot has changed, but some days I still wonder. It probably isn't fair to consider Daring Do a friend when I haven't even met her in person. So it's not like I lost a friend, exactly, but it still feels like a loss, and one that's partly my fault.

Dear Princess of Friendship, my question is this: if Daring Do and I weren't friends, then what were we?