Dear X—

When we first got together, I gave you a copy of Wind, Sand, and Stars by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. You had always reminded me a bit of The Little Prince, another one of his books. In the story, the young prince falls in love with a rose who teaches him that what is truly essential is invisible to the eye, and that genuine love requires time, effort, and responsibility.

My first impressions of you were that you were flaky, overstating your accomplishments, and a religious oddity. You were a really good fuckboy, but certainly not relationship material. And I became subject to the exoticized gaze of the white savior. Which is sexy… until it isn’t. It is a gift and a curse to live life as a Cassandra, to see the end from the beginning. And go through it anyway.

In Funny Face (1957), Audrey Hepburn’s character muses, “In desperation, one does not examine one’s avenue of escape.” I was in an impossible situation and I latched onto you as my exit strategy, overlooking the characteristics that would come back to haunt us both. I am not without such ones myself—fiery (comes with fire), obsessive, irritable, and constantly fighting the demons of body image distortions.

But it became clear we were never going to adventure together, retire on a Michigan lake, or live ex-pat life in Uganda. You were never going to let me, a Hindu atheist, walk down an aisle, in front of your parents to “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” (ok, my fantasy). It seemed you wanted someone to provide physical labor and carry the emotional load. I started dressing down if you said an event was casual or “too date night” to wear in front of your family. I withheld my expansive, referential cultural, film, music, and literary knowledge as you didn’t get it. I began erasing myself.

What decent man asks a mother of two to move so far away from their school and community and bear the entire brunt of parenting? Or doesn’t report suspected child abuse? And when you chose social comfort over defending me and my kids against micro and macro aggressions, and sought low-stakes emotional intimacy with the same woman who exerted dominance by Othering me, that’s when I should have thrown you out of the house. I almost did. But I became the problem for raising the issue and stressing you… which is classic white fragility.

And with your family? I was putting up with subtle proselytizing from your mom and veiled 90s era homophobic remarks from your brother. Why didn't I challenge these things? Why didn’t you? To keep the peace? I’m sorry to say that you grew up in a doomsday cult of self-deprivation. The affection was conditional. And you haven’t left Adventism, or at least it hasn’t left you. You recoil from strong emotion, you are revulsed by rock music, you revere women for not wearing makeup.

I was your biggest fan. I believed in your potential, capability, and ability to do the right thing. You overcame so much. But ultimately you chose avoidance over discomfort, self-preservation over truth, and control as safety over growth. Unless you act with courage, you will never a be a journalist… there is a difference between journalistic neutrality and journalistic ethics. And when put to the test, your character proved to be as poor as your seamanship. (my last “that’s what she said.”)

Also, I am inspired by and feed off of the energy of a beautiful woman. All the women you told me that were ”gorgeous”… were just ordinary… safe, manageable, controllable. What made them “gorgeous” was their validation of you and not to be a “handful.” But a truly beautiful woman is one I seek out, and doesn’t make me feel insecure. Because I am one. You bringing up other women reflected your profoundly deep insecurity, not mine. And why? I always thought you were crazy hot.

It seems your relationships fail because you don’t put in the effort. You want easy. You want shortcuts. You want access, intimacy, and support…all without the emotional work or reciprocity. You seek admiration from women (and men), not partnership. The only reason you were able to share space with a woman as attractive and intelligent as me, was because I was in a vulnerable situation and unaware of my own self-worth. The minute I expressed minimal needs, you were out.

I’ve always been on fire—you just couldn’t hold the flame unless it revolved around you and fueled your dreams, delusions, and desires. You couldn’t stand it when the attention wasn’t on you. Hence, why you probably loved the weeks after my suicide attempt. Hence, how strange you didn’t say one word of praise in front of our friends after my poetry reading. You re-centered the attention on yourself while I sat in a corner with my yellow flowers. Later, you took credit, saying I’d never have done it had you not pushed me. I have been writing poetry since the age of 8, and I can assure I did it without you. This letter alone is proof of my writing prowess.

And the silent rage I saw in your eyes those last few days, the quiet anger beneath the surface when I wouldn’t bend to your will—shook and terrified me. You left me like I was 22, not 42, showcasing the real extent of your emotional immaturity. You had me paint a house until I was about to fall down dizzy from fumes, all the while plotting to retreat back into it and regress into your former life. You took all my money when I trusted you and forced me out of our home.

To control the narrative, you lied about my mental health issues to your friends. You reframed your complicity in racism as my rumination. You (and your therapist who serves to validate you) called my ask for basic respect, communication and presence codependence. You reduced my identity to that of an “independent mother.” You diminished our epic love to a rebound. You blamed me for persuading you into a relationship you never wanted. You projected your unstable sense of self onto me as me not having individuality (said no one about me, ever). You made me feel unworthy of future male love. This is revisionist history. This is you offloading emotional accountability. If you expected me to shrink and slink away quietly, you really have no idea who I am.

Thank you for showing me your true face… somewhere on the spectrum between performative liberal and covert racist and misogynist… but I think the real truth is, you don’t even know who you are. Et tu, Little Prince? You betrayed me. And you betrayed yourself… or the values you claimed to hold. So many nights, you came to me in my dreams. So many times, I woke up screaming for you. I missed you so much that I welcomed these nightmares. I wear your love like a tattoo. If it’s not obvious, I am the rose and you are the prince. I wasn’t just “one of the best,” I was the best. And my physical and mental space are sacred, and you (as you are) are no longer welcome into my temple.

Goodbye.

Kavitha

P.S. Karma is not a cat (and no, there is no chance you will be reincarnated as TS’ cat) but a bitch.

P.P.S. The only thing remaining is “Hey, Kavi…Baby, I got your money, don’t you worry.”