Letter One

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Dear Bronte,

Remember the day
you gave me Stella?
You were lining my best features with golden highlight
and whispered how pretty I looked.
Whispered how odd it was to see a guy all dolled up like this.
It made you feel more at ease to
give me a made up name.

Your lovely greys sparkled as you looked into my own
pale hued browns.
You said I had the stars in my eyes and I was grateful for the makeup caking my face. There was no way you'd see the heat flushing my cheeks.

Stella,
you murmured.
After your Italian grandma.

Stella,
I repeated.
After the one who was the real me.

You gave me Stella too, Bronte.
And if I'm being honest, out of everyone I'm writing to, you're probably the least guilty.
You're probably the most innocent.
You never meant to harm me the way you did.

But that's religion for you,
I guess.
It ruins everything.
Just like it ruined you and me.

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