Dear Princess Twilight,
Hey! I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while. Things have been weirdly busy here, considering it’s summer vacation.
I guess the biggest thing is that Rainbow Dash got us a gig at this huge festival called Summer Sunfest. Familiar name, right? Weird that it doesn’t take place on the solstice, and even weirder that it’s not in Canterlot. But I guess we don’t really have a princess here to raise the sun — unless Principal Celestia is hiding something.
It mostly went great. But while I was there, I had a weird experience that I wanted to tell you about. Do you remember all that stuff that happened with that girl Wallflower Blush? She
And my pen trails off.
Princess Twilight is my hero. She was my first confidant, the one who reinvented my life. And most importantly, she’s the one who taught me what friendship should be. She’s spent so long mentoring me, so how am I supposed to tell her that I straight up attacked someone I was supposed to have forgiven? How would that make her feel, knowing I’ve failed so badly?
After a few minutes spent chewing my pen, thinking in circles, the doorbell rings. I hop off the couch and head over to the intercom. “Who is it?”
Through the static comes, “Twilight P. Sparkle!”
“What does the ‘P’ stand for?”
“Petunia!”
I snicker and let her in the building.
Saved by the dork. I snatch my journal back up and scritch out a quick, “Sorry! Twilight (our Twilight) just came over. Busy busy! Talk soon!” Then I Hail-Mary it up onto my loft bed, but it sails straight over and knocks a bunch of pictures off my wall shelf. I’m not good at football.
When I open the door, Twilight skips through like she’s the happiest girl in the world. “Good afternoon!”
“Good afternoon to you, Petunia,” I say, cackling at the frown she gives me. I point at the oversized canvas bag she has slung over her shoulder. “What’ve you got in there?”
“I brought my laptop, my notebook, one of the books I’m reading right now, and some stomach medicine.” She drops her unusually lumpy bag on the couch. “I know you said you’re feeling better, but I figure it’s good to have on hand.”
It’s true, I’ve mostly recovered from my bout with bad burritos — although the mention of medicine is enough to make my stomach gurgle again.
“Now, are you ready to finish Tirek’s Revenge together?” she asks, sitting down. “I had eggs for breakfast and everything.”
“You sure that’s gonna be enough? I’ve been stuck on the last Carnivore Cage for a month.”
She holds a hand over her heart. “I am willing to break my curfew to beat this game today.”
I cross my arms, raise a brow.
“Okay, maybe not my curfew. But past dinnertime, definitely.”
“That’s more like it.” I jab a thumb towards my bathroom. “Lemme go pee, then I’ll be ready.”
Twi seems taken off guard by that. “Oh,” she says, standing a bit. She glances at her bag, then me, then sits down again. “Sure! I’ll be here.”
Hm. That’s not suspicious.
Still, I turn away and head for the toilet. This is the first time that Twilight and I have chilled together in weeks, and I’m not about to look a gift-human in the mouth.
I close the door, take my seat, and run a hand through my knotty hair. It’s hard to describe, but when Twi and I were apart for those two weeks — her dealing with the breakup and me stewing in my own self-pity — I can’t remember the last time I felt so awful. It felt like a part of me was missing, and I had no idea how to get it back. Even now, every text she sends me, every word she shares feels like a tiny gift. She’s constantly on my mind.
I haven’t felt like this about any human before. Even when I dated Flash Sentry, he could’ve disappeared and I probably wouldn’t have noticed for a week. Though that says more about me than him.
Is this what it feels like to have a true best best friend? A partner, a second half? If I’d known how good a friend like Twi’s love could feel, I would have redeemed myself years ago, no Elements of Harmony required.
From the other side of the bathroom door, I hear Twi’s voice, as slender and slight as the rest of her: “Ouch!”
I look up and ask, “Are you alright?”
It takes a few seconds for her to call back, “I’m fine! Just stubbed my toe!”
“Don’t sue me, please.”
“Uh-huh!”
No witty comeback? Just ‘uh-huh?’
Okay, something’s up.
I finish up in the bathroom and head back to the living room. On arrival, I’m assaulted by the thick smell of cinnamon.
Twilight’s sitting politely on my couch, holding a lighter in one hand and sucking on her other thumb. She has a notebook open on her lap. And on my coffee table sit two burning red candles, with a big box of tissues between them.
She slips the lighter into her bag, then pats the empty couch cushion. “Sunset. Let’s talk.”
“Um.” I walk over to the couch, and sit down slowly, treating the cushion with more care than a bomb squad does a blue wire. “We talking Tirek’s Revenge strategy, or…?”
“On the bus, we had a great heart-to-heart about my issues. It really reminded me how important truthful, honest communication can be. Now it’s your turn.”
I feel the tickle of sweat running down my side. “I haven’t broken up with anyone lately, though.”
“No, but something’s bothering you, and it isn’t just food poisoning.” Her knees are twitching —- she’s dying to knock them together, but trying her best to keep a confident face. “I could tell on the bus. You kept pursing and relaxing your lips. You only do that when you’re thinking really hard about something, or playing guitar.”
“Can’t say that I’ve ever noticed that before,” I say, though I immediately know she’s right.
“You helped me feel better about what happened with Timber.” She slows down a bit at his name, and reaches up to touch her hair. “So now I want to help you feel better. I brought candles to help you relax, and tissues in case you need a good cry. And after I got home on Sunday, I started reviewing the minutes from my last two years of cognitive behavioral therapy, just to prepare for this conversation.”
I blink. “Your therapist takes minutes?”
“No, I do,” she says. Before I can respond, she adds, “He doesn’t like it.”
I’ve never been a fan of psychoanalysis. Mandatory guidance counselor meetings give me hives, and I’d rather bare-knuckle box a dragon than go to therapy. But there’s an infectious enthusiasm in Twilight’s voice, a happy lilt usually reserved for tutoring Rarity in math. Her words keep speeding up and then slowing back down again, like she’s uncontrollably excited and has to consciously reel it back in.
So I crack my neck, cross my arms, and settle back into the couch cushions. “Alright. Work your magic, Dr. Sparkle. But I’m not gonna cry.”
She titters at the title, then takes a long breath and folds her hands on her lap. “Alright. Before I say anything, I want to give you a chance. What’s on your mind?”
A whirlwind of words rush to the front of my mind, most too vulgar or embarrassing to let loose. But one phrase sticks to the roof of my mouth — a nugget of raw truth, begging to be let out. “I’m supposed to be honest with you, right?”
She nods, then leans in.
I turn off my brain censor and let the nugget out: “When Wallflower showed up at the concert, I wanted to walk into traffic.”
She moves back again, slowly. “Okay, that’s... that’s valid.”
“No, it’s not!” I say, rolling my eyes. “Be real with me, Twi: It’s an awful thing to think. I shouldn’t be thinking like that about anyone anymore, and definitely not someone we all forgave.”
“We?”
“Yeah, we.” I motion vaguely in the air. “Y’know. All of us. You and me and the girls.”
“Hm.” She writes something down, lifting her knees so I can’t see. This is why I don’t like therapists.
“The point is,” I say, “that I’m not supposed to hate people. Hell, I’m probably not even supposed to dislike them.”
“What do you mean by ‘supposed to?’”
“I mean that I’m a good guy now. The Friendship Chick. Hating people is Old Sunset’s shtick.”
“So, what, you have to love everyone?”
“Yes, exactly.” I nod, nod, nod. “That’s exactly what it means. I’m a good person now, and that’s what good people do. That’s why I’m here.”
She taps her pen against her lips a few times, then points it at me. “Question: Am I a good person?”
I thought this was my therapy session. “Of course. You’re the best.”
“But there are people that I dislike. Most of my old classmates at Crystal Prep, for starters — they’re half the reason I’m in therapy.” She chuckles. “Not that I don’t understand feeling guilty about it. I mean, I’m Catholic.”
I stare at her. “I don’t know what that means. That’s a religion, right?”
She stares back at me, then waves her hands in front of her face. “Nevermind. I’m just saying that disliking someone doesn’t make you a bad person.”
“What about grabbing their arm and pushing them to the ground in front of dozens of people?” I ask, scoffing. “The whole reason that Wallflower… happened in the first place was that I wasn’t nice to her. I treated her like trash, and she got me back for it.”
At that, Twilight’s expression changes. She frowns, shrinks back a little. “You don’t really think that, do you?”
“Of course I do. It’s what everyone told me.” I pause. “Why, what do you think?”
“I think Wallflower had issues. Deep, internal issues.”
“Issues I caused.”
“I’m not sure that you did. And even if you did, it doesn’t mean that you deserved to have your mind violated that way.”
I scoff. “Whatever. Point is that I still need to like her, no matter what.”
“Do you like Timber?”
Bile rises in my throat. “Totally different.”
“How?”
“What’s your goal here, Twi?” I stand up, turn my back to her, and walk to the kitchen. “Do you want me to hate Wallflower? Do you hate her?”
“After everything? I’m glad she has friends, like Fluttershy. But I don’t particularly care for her.”
That actually makes me happy, and I can’t stand that it does. “And the other question?”
“Just trying to help. Because it feels like you’re holding yourself to an impossible standard.”
I open the fridge. “Maybe I am. But—never mind. You don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
It only takes a second to grab a can of soda, but I don’t stand back up. I pretend to keep searching, staring at my moldy reflection in the tupperware and trying to think of an answer. “I dunno. Me.”
I cringe at my own voice, echoing off the refrigerator walls. That’s a hell of a charge to throw at my best friend, that she doesn’t understand me.
But when I finally stand back up and turn around, she’s just waiting patiently, clipboard at the ready. “Can you explain what you mean?”
Can I? I’m not even sure what I meant. I shrug.
She watches me as I walk back over and sit down. Then she says, “I guess what I’m trying to ask is this: You keep saying that you have to do things, love everyone and keep your feelings inside. What do you think will happen if you don’t do that?”
I grip my soda can tight. I know the answer. I think about it all the time, before I go to sleep, when someone talks over me, when the girls make their stupid jokes about who I used to be. When I hear Wallflower’s name. And I always push the thought away, like just comprehending the words will make them real.
But at this point, I trust Twi more than I trust myself.
“I’ll go back to how I was. And I’ll lose all my friends.” I stand up again before Twilight’s sadness and pity can hit me, so fast that some soda sloshes out of the can and onto the carpet. “And I know you’re gonna say that’ll never happen. But you don’t know what I was like before the Princess came here! How much of a scumbag I was, and how much people hated me!”
“But you’ve changed!” she says. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“No, because being awful is all I’ve ever known, ever since I was a kid! It’s what I am!” I take a deep breath and press the cold can of soda to my forehead. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to keep yelling, or arguing with you.”
“If arguing helps you put your feelings or problems into words,” Twi says, crossing her legs under her, “then you should argue.”
“But you’re the therapist here,” I say with a stupid chuckle. “Isn’t the whole shtick that I say something, and you tell me what my problem is?”
“I don’t think so,” she says with a shake of her head. “I’ve been in therapy since middle school, across five doctors in three different practices. And the best therapists I’ve had are the ones that just let me say whatever I wanted, and helped me turn my abstract thoughts into concrete words. Because once I have the words for something, I can study it. And once I can study it, I can understand it, and then solve it.”
I let her words roll around my head for a sec. Then I put a hand on my hip. “That’s a very Twilight Sparkle way of looking at things.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment!” she says, beaming. “So, let’s turn those thoughts into words — let’s argue! I say that you’re a changed woman. You say that you’re still bad. Explain! Defend your thesis!”
I still despise therapy. But this beautiful dork’s grin is enough to spark a smile of my own.
I rub my face again and turn my thoughts inwards. I’m not a good person. That’s true, I’m sure it is. But why?
There’s so much that Twilight doesn’t know. There’s so much that no one knows, because I’ve kept it hidden. But if I’m ever going to move on — or even escape this conversation — maybe it’s time to let loose.
There’s only one logical place to start. But pushing out the words is as painful as passing a kidney stone.
My first sentence comes out quiet, slow: “I don’t really talk about this much, but — I never knew my parents, Twi. They died, or abandoned me, I dunno. But I grew up in a group home with dozens of other kids, and I had to learn how to look out for myself.”
“I’m sorry,” Twilight says, turning her eyes down.
“Yeah, so am I.” I collapse back into my seat. “All I ever wanted was attention and power. And I’d get it any way I could, even if it meant hurting others. I made sure I was always the teachers’ pet, beat down anyone else who tried to steal my spot, and cheated in every class I wasn’t perfect at. I spent every day angry, hating everyone around me. It was instinct.
“Then I got good enough to impress Celestia, and she took me in! She basically adopted me! And I finally had someone who paid attention to me every day, who actually loved me!”
When I sleep, I still dream of her. I dream of the long marbled hallways, the plush red carpets, of those sparkling pink eyes. We’d end every day watching the sunset. And I’d lay against her side, listening to her heartbeat, bathing in the soft glow of sunlight filtered through her mane, warm and awesome.
I take a sip of soda. “But that wasn’t enough for me. So I abandoned her. And I came here, and tormented everyone at CHS for years. Screamed at them, abused them, made them afraid to wake up. Turned into a literal demon. Hell, I’m still tormenting them.”
Twilight knits her brow. “How?”
“What else do you call Gaia Everfree, Vignette Valencia, and Juniper Montage?” I ask. “I brought that magic here. I made them.”
“You can’t blame yourself for their actions.”
“Well, I do.” I swing my arms in a wide arc in front of me. “Now I’ve got all this great stuff — friends, a place to live, you — and I don’t deserve any of it! I should be rotting in Equestrian prison, not playing in a rock band! The only reason the Princess didn’t punish me was because she wanted me to make friends. So that’s my job now: Being a good friend. It’s why I’m alive.”
Part of me hopes that saying something so intense will shut her up. But instead, she nods and says, “So, locking away your feelings, loving everyone no matter what… Are you doing it because you want to? Or because it’s your way of punishing yourself?”
I blow a raspberry and look away. But I can’t bring myself to deny what she's saying.
Is that really what I’m doing? Punishing myself because I don’t think the rest of the world has? I’ve never thought of it like that. But when I put it that way, it sounds so stupid!
“It’s not that I’m punishing myself,” I say, lips pressed to the edge of the can. “I’m just being grateful. My life is great right now. Amazing! So I shouldn’t complain about Wallflower. Or how it feels like people barely listen to me.”
I didn’t mean to say that last bit. But the words are spilling from my mouth like chunks of lead, too heavy and toxic for me to stop.
“What do you mean?” Twilight asks. “Who’s not listening?”
The rest of the girls. But I can’t say that. It’ll make me sound like a complete asshole.
“I dunno,” I say. Her eyes are boring into the back of my head. “The rest of the girls.”
Damn it.
Concern radiates off her skin in waves. “Do you want to talk about that?”
I feel just as nauseous as I did at the concert. Badmouthing Wallflower already makes me sound like a jerk. So how can I criticize my first friends, the ones who helped me realize life could be worth living even without absolute power?
It takes a lot of energy to open my mouth. “It’s nothing. Stupid stuff, like Rainbow writing that impossible guitar part, or Fluttershy bringing Wallflower to the concert, or whenever they make some joke about me ‘going demon mode’ or whatever.”
“Or when they forgot about your Halloween costume?”
The memory comes flying back like a knife at my head. I spin to look at her. “How the hell do you remember that?”
“It was the same day we realized we both loved anime and I texted you for the first time,” she says, smiling. “I was the only one who recognized your Halloween costume, and I could tell you were upset. Was I right?”
“Yeah.” I nod slowly, then hang my head, staring at my feet. “I know it’s stupid, but it just feels like they don’t consider my feelings sometimes. Like I’m there to be their friend, but not the other way around.”
“It’s not stupid.” She touches my knee. “It’s okay to be upset about it!”
“But is it? It’s so small, compared to all the awful shit I did!” I grab my scalp, as if it’ll make the whirlwind of thoughts slow down. “I can’t let myself get angry! When I get angry, I get mean. And if I get mean, I’m gonna go back to being a bitch that everyone hates! It’s in my blood!”
The room goes quiet. A million seconds pass, and my tinnitus is about to turn my brain to mush when Twilight raises her hand. “Can I offer an opinion on that last thing you just said?”
I blink at her. “Sure?”
She puts her hand down, tents her fingers over the clipboard, and clears her throat. “That argument is complete nonsense.”
Ouch. “Are therapists supposed to say that?”
“Maybe not. But you got an A in Biology — you know that there’s no Bitch Gene that runs in your blood.”
All the breath leaves my lungs. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard Twilight swear, and in her voice, it’s the dirtiest word ever spoken. My words turn to mush, and it takes a good five seconds for me to say, “It was a metaphor, Twi.”
“But it’s what you actually believe!” she says, throwing up her hands. “Objectively, I know that you know none of this makes sense. If our places were switched, would you be telling me that I needed to be grateful for feeling miserable?”
“No.” Just the thought of putting her through that makes me angry. “But we’re different!”
“We’re both teenage girls who desperately wanted attention and love, and would do anything to get it.” She presses a hand into her chest. “We both messed up, bad. We both hurt people. And now we’re both here together, trying our best. So how come you’ll forgive me, but won’t forgive yourself? Give me a logical answer.”
I turn away and fiddle with my fingers, trying to come up with something.
Because I wanted to hurt people, while Twilight just did it accidentally?
But I’ve spent so long atoning for that. Even if not everyone’s forgiven me, the most important people have.
Because it encourages me to be nicer to people?
But I’m nice to people because helping them feel happy helps me feel happy. Putting a smile on someone’s face is the most glorious thing in the world.
Because Twilight is infinitely kinder, smarter, more beautiful than me?
But if she’s really so smart, then she’s probably right about this.
Goddess damn it, Twi! Why can’t you just let me suffer with my delusions in peace?
“I don’t know,” I finally say.
She takes my hand, and I can’t ignore the electric rush of love that runs through my veins. “You’re not a monster. You’re human — a wonderful, amazing human who makes my life better every day. And you know that you can’t suck everything in and be perfectly lovely to everyone all the time. It’ll drive you insane.”
I so badly want to deny it. The demons in my brain are screaming arguments at me: I’m worthless, I’m evil, everyone hates me.
But Twilight doesn’t hate me; my brain is wrong about that one. So why would I believe the rest of its lies?
“Maybe you’re right,” I say in a breath.
She grips my hand tighter. “You don’t have to get over everything right now. You don’t even have to believe me! But can you try being nice to yourself? For a little while, at least?”
I could just accept and leave it there. It’d get me out of this conversation. But I can’t force out the words.
When I finally speak, my voice cracks: “I don’t think I know how to do that.”
My voice has cracked like this before: One year ago, when I was crawling out of a pit in front of CHS, sobbing that I didn’t know the first thing about friendship. The sound scares me as much now as it did back then.
But Princess Twilight gave me her hand.
And now, Twilight is giving me her clipboard. “Hold this.”
I take it from her, and she stands up to grab her bag again. While she rummages through it, I steal a glance at her notes — but they’re all written in such tiny, tight cursive that I can’t glean a single word.
“The best way to tackle a problem,” she says, pulling a thick metal square out of her sack, “is to write it down!”
With a grunt, she tosses the metal square upwards. As it flies, the metal panels unfold, sliding outward and over each other, revealing a blank white surface. By the time it starts coming down, it’s sprouted three thin tripod legs. It hits the ground with a sharp thud, shaking the entire apartment and knocking a box of cereal off the top of my fridge.
I stare at the semi-reflective white surface. “Is that a whiteboard?”
“My patent-pending expandable whiteboard!” Twilight says, pulling a red marker out of her bag. “I came up with the idea yesterday and built it overnight!”
While she uncaps her marker and starts writing, I wolf-whistle. “You know that you’re the smartest girl in the world, right?”
She turns around to curtsy, then turns back to keep scribbling. “You have a lot of confusing, conflicting thoughts. That’s natural! What we need to do is break down those thoughts to identify the main problem, the secondary problems that build to the main, and then the solutions for each one.”
“Divide and conquer?” I say, leaning forward.
“Exactly.” She steps away from the whiteboard to reveal a giant red circle with the words ‘THE HUMAN CONDITION’ written inside. “The main issue, as I see it, is this: You’re caught between being human — flawed, imperfect, sometimes angry — and a fear that being less than perfect will scare people away. Does that sound right?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
She nods, then pulls a few more markers out of her bag. “So, together, let’s think: What are the smaller issues that the main issue is causing?”
Hesitantly, I put my soda down, then stand up and take a black marker from her. I roll it between my fingers. “Can you give me an example?”
She uncaps a green marker, draws a smaller circle, and writes ‘WALLFLOWER’ inside of it.
Just the name makes my stomach lurch. I take a deep breath. “Can we skip that one?”
“We’ll come back to it later.” She steps aside again. “Your turn.”
I walk up to the whiteboard and draw another circle. I comb through the last few minutes of ranting and raving. And then I write ‘FRIENDS NOT CARING’ inside the circle.
“Good!” she says. “Well, not good. But good job!”
The two of us spend the next few minutes drawing more circles and making more problems. Some get bigger circles than others.
On the left side of the board, I add: ‘BLAME MYSELF FOR BRINGING MAGIC HERE,’ ‘FEEL LIKE I SHOULDN’T BE HAPPY,’ and — embarrassingly, when I think Twi isn’t looking — ‘WHY AM I SO UGLY.’
Not gonna lie, the whole experience is pretty depressing. It feels so much better to lock these problems away and ignore them. I repress trauma easier than I breathe. Laying all my issues out like this makes me feel like such a broken sad sack. Is this how therapy is supposed to work? How does Twi stand it?
I sigh and glance over at her. On the right side of the board, she’s added two circles for me: ‘BEING TOO GOOD AT GUITAR AND VIDEO GAMES,’ and ‘THINKS HER ART IS BAD FOR SOME REASON.’
When she steps back and walks over to my side, I point at that last circle. “I’m not sure that one fits the prompt.”
“Sure it does,” she says. “You’re an amazing artist. But you always degrade your work, because you’re comparing it to a Platonic ideal of what it should be. It all connects back to that conflict between reality and perfection.”
I stare at the whiteboard and think about my art. I’d rather crash through a car windshield than show any of it to my friends — but why? Why am I so ashamed? Because it’s bad. Compared to what? Why am I never satisfied?
And there’s another common denominator there: I love my art when I’m the only one looking at it. Showing it to others is what riles me up. Is Twilight right? Is it just me being scared to show anyone I have flaws?
“Sunset?”
I shake myself awake. “Yeah, sorry — just thinking about what you said.” And I’ll think more about it later. “Are you sure you’re not a therapist?”
She giggles. “I just take copious notes.”
For the first time, I zoom out to take in the entire whiteboard at once. There are so many circles, so many problems, that it makes me lightheaded. “Now what?”
“Now we start trying to solve the problems.”
“How long is that gonna take?”
“Some might only take a little while,” she says, folding her arms. “Some might take years. Some you might never figure out.”
I can’t help but slouch. “I’m already tired.”
“Yeah, it stinks.” She leans into me, her bare armed peach fuzz tickling my skin. “Trust me, I know. My problem web can’t even fit on this whiteboard. Although it’s gotten a lot smaller since meeting you.”
“I won’t ask for payment.”
“I think we’ve established a pretty stable symbiotic relationship.” She tilts her head. “I’ll also mention that I do have opinions on some of these.”
How friggin’ prepared is she? “Gimme a hint?”
She motions to the ‘BLAME MYSELF FOR BRINGING MAGIC HERE’ circle. “This might be selfish, but if you hadn’t brought magic here, we never would have met.”
That’s meant to make me feel better. But all I can see is the fear in Twilight’s eyes at the Friendship Games, at Camp Everfree, whenever we’ve fought some horrible Equestrian villain. She could have been a normal teenage girl, not some magical child soldier.
It’s true, I love her. But have I really made her life better?
“Sure,” I say, “although you’d probably be safer.”
“At Crystal Prep?” She snorts. “I’d be depressed, alone, and everyone’s #1 bullying target. Before I left, I was probably weeks away from snapping. I’d hardly call that safe.”
For a half-second, I picture myself punching out Indigo Zap. I should feel guilty for that, right?
She looks up at me and grins. “Also I can talk to my dog, move things with my mind, and grow wings. You have to admit, that’s pretty cool.”
“Facts,” I say, and we fist bump.
Right next to that circle is ‘FEEL LIKE I SHOULDN’T BE HAPPY.’
I sigh. “This one is gonna be hard.”
“Talk it through,” she says. “Why shouldn’t you feel happy?”
“Because I hurt other people,” I say. She opens her mouth, but I interrupt with, “But how does me being miserable help those people? It doesn’t undo the pain I caused.”
“Wallflower’s a good example of that.”
I nod. “If I can never be happy, I’ll just depress myself to death. And then I won’t be able to help anyone.”
“That’s true,” Twi says, “but also you aren’t alive just to serve other people, right? You don’t have to justify enjoying life.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I rub my forehead and take a sharp breath. “Goddess, I’m sorry — I’ve just spent so long thinking about everyone else, that putting myself first makes me feel like a total jackass.”
“I think you make the world better just by being yourself.”
Logic is going to war with emotion again. I know Twilight’s right. But I still feel like I’m teetering at the edge of a cliff, head swamped with vertigo, seconds away from falling back into the dark.
“What if I get complacent?” I ask, massaging my eyes. “Thinking about myself is how I went bad in the first place. Or what if it’s like a snowball effect, and I mess up once and can’t stop?”
“You won’t go bad. You’re not an egg, or a snowball. But even if you do, you have us now. Your friends. We’ll always pull you back.”
“I don’t know if I want to risk getting Friendship Blasted into a crater again.”
“Not like that. No magic. Just us reminding you how much we love you.”
I let the shapes meld and melt behind my eyelids for a few seconds more before letting go. “Okay. I’ll try.”
It takes a few seconds for my eyes to readjust. When the blurriness clears out, I notice that Twi is offering me the box of tissues.
“No thanks,” I say, waving it off. “I don’t cry, remember?”
She rolls her eyes. “If you say so. I’m telling you, it helps!”
I’ll save that for the next appointment.
…I probably should look into seeing a real therapist after this, huh? Or at least book some sessions with my guidance counselor.
We look at the next bubble. The one about me being ugly. I can’t read it again. Instead I stare at the ground. I can’t see my feet over my stomach.
Twilight scratches her chin. Then, for a brief moment, her brows shoot up and her eyes go wide — it’s her “I just came up with the perfect solution” face. I stand up straighter and wait for the explanation.
But it doesn’t come. A flame of embarrassment bursts to life inside of her, and that look of realization melts away. She goes back to thinking.
“What?” I ask. “You had an idea.”
The embarrassment gets stronger. She shakes her head. “Nothing. Very dumb idea.”
“Tell me? ‘Dumb’ from you is usually still pretty genius.”
“No, no, it…” She bites her lip. “It’s just an exercise I read about online. I used to do it sometimes. But it didn’t come from an academic source, and it’s definitely not peer-reviewed, so it’s not worth thinking about.”
“Did it work for you?”
“Sort of. A little.”
“Why not try it, then?” I ask with a shrug.
“We could,” she says, twisting her fingers together, “but it might get loud. If we start yelling, will your neighbors complain?”
Okay, now I have to know what she has planned. “Nah, loud noises come with the building.”
“Okay.” She puts her marker down. Her cheeks are practically glowing pink. “But I’m telling you, I don’t know how trustworthy the science behind this is.”
“Eh, don’t worry — I trust you.”
That makes her smile, though her blush doesn’t get any weaker. She motions for me to back up, then lights up her hands with magic and starts rearranging the furniture. She folds up her whiteboard, snuffs the candles, pushes the couch back towards the door, and floats the coffee table up to my loft. A minute later, there’s a wide open space in the center of my apartment, big enough to fit all the Rainbooms and our equipment.
While she destroys the Feng Shui, I lean against the sink and nibble my thumb. There’s no sugarcoating it: I feel like garbage right now, worse than when we started. Twilight’s enthusiasm is pretty much the only thing keeping me alive. I expected a lazy day playing video games, not an hour spent dredging up my deepest worries. I usually save that for bedtime, when I stare at the ceiling and beg the universe to let me fall asleep.
But underneath the mud in my brain, there’s something new — some shining light, sparkling in the muck.
It’s the realization that after all this time spent drowning in the sludge, there might be a way out. Twilight’s throwing me a lifeline. And grabbing hold of it is exhausting. But I need to hold on. I need to get out of this.
I deserve to get out of this. I do. I do. I do.
“Okay,” Twi eventually says, wiping her forehead and looking around the empty space. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and hand it to her — she takes a long drink and stares into space. She’s silent, but somehow getting redder every second.
I take a step towards her. “What’s next?”
“Next,” she says, fiddling with the water bottle’s cap. She looks at me — no, somewhere past me. “You’re supposed to take off your clothes.”
I burst out laughing. “What?” I say, covering my mouth. “What the hell are we doing?”
Her face is so flushed that you’d think she was having an allergic reaction. “It’s a body positivity exercise,” she mumbles, eyes darting around. “I told you, it’s not peer-reviewed, it might not — oh, never mind, we don’t have to do it!”
“No, no!” I wave my arms around and hold my breath to kill the giggles. “It’s fine! You just caught me, like, totally off-guard.”
“Right. Okay.” She stiffly steps over to where my couch was, remembers that she moved it, and then scurries across the room to its new location and sits down. She tries to fold her hands in her lap, but her knees are rocking too fast, so she just pulls out her phone and stares at it. After a second, she adds. “You can keep your underwear.”
Her awkwardness is flooding the room, and now I can feel the sweat dripping down my back. I roll my eyes at myself and lift up my shirt.
I’ve stripped in front of other girls a million times. Never in the exciting way, but usually in the necessary evil way: Sleepovers, the doctor’s office, Rarity’s workshop. And my cheap bra and panties are barely one step removed from a bikini. So I’ve got no good reason to feel shy.
Besides, I could strut naked down Pinfeather Avenue, and it still wouldn’t be as embarrassing as five minutes spent in a CHS locker room. Spitfire, Fleetfoot, Blossomforth — our gym class has some of the sportiest girls in the state. And when we undress, I can’t help but stare at their lithe arms, their tight tummies. Perfect, beautiful. And I know they’re looking at me, bloated and huge. And they’d never say anything to my face. They don’t need to.
Twi and I are close enough that I know she hates her body just as much as I hate mine. But how? She’s so thin, so pretty. What could she ever see in someone like me?
Does she look at me like they do? Disgusted, amused?
No, of course not. She’s not like that.
So why does my heart speed up as I unbutton my jeans, peel them off my oversized thighs, and drop them around my ankles? Standing half-naked in this steaming, humid apartment, I feel so… vulnerable? Ashamed?
I step out of my crumpled pants, pull my panties out of my ass, and try to smile. Thank the goddess I put on underwear before going out to the bodega earlier. “Ready to scream!”
Twilight looks up from her phone. Her eyes run across my bare skin, legs to crotch to stomach to boobs to face, and I swear she’s never looked at me so intently. Her bashfulness disappears, replaced by a moon-eyed amazement. I’m a new textbook, big and shiny, that she’s just opening for the first time. For a second, I feel pretty.
But then she hides her face again. “You look really good,” she says, voice cracking. It’s not very convincing. She stands up and takes another drink of water, then puts on her headphones, walks to the center of the room, and stretches out her arms. “Come hold my hands.” I do. Her palms are sweaty, and discomfort still boils in her bones. “Repeat after me. And remember my disclaimer about this exercise’s lack of scientific backing.”
She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath — I feel it against my chest — and then lifts her head high, and yells, “My name is Sunset Shimmer, and I’m unbelievably hot!”
It might be the loudest I’ve ever heard her. Her voice booms against the walls, and her embarrassment spikes. My face is burning too.
But I swallow. I close my eyes too. And I lift my head. “My name is Sunset Shimmer, and I’m really hot.” The words don’t feel natural in my mouth.
“Unbelievably,” Twilight says. “Also, louder.”
“Unbelievably hot!”
Some of her embarrassment fades. She nods, then yells, “I’m Sunset Shimmer, and I am so, so beautiful!”
“I’m Sunset Shimmer, and I’m so, so beautiful!”
“I’m super sexy!”
“I’m super sexy!”
“There’s no one cuter than me!”
“There’s no one cuter than me.”
And we keep going like that, platitude after platitude.
The point of this, as I see it, is pretty simple: I’m supposed to keep repeating this until I internalize it and stop hating myself. But in my voice, I don’t believe any of them — they’re fantasies, lies. Twilight sounds like she believes what she’s saying more than I do.
But how could she? How could she find me, sweaty and stretch marked, “super sexy?”
This isn’t working. Every affirmation is a slap to the face.
So when Twilight finishes her next line — “People look at me in awe!” — I let go of her hands and ask, “Why?”
She opens her eyes, blinks at me. “Why what?”
“You keep saying I’m sexy, I’m beautiful.” I squeeze one of my stomach rolls. “Why am I sexy? What about me is beautiful? Tell me. Be specific.”
Twilight stares. Then she starts going, “Well, um, uh.” And then, maybe because she realizes that what little self-confidence I have is draining like blood from a wound, she puts on a smile and says, “I’ve always loved your hair.”
I pinch some of my frizzy hair between my fingers. “Okay. What about my body?”
Her face starts splotching again. She clasps her hands and sways on her feet. “I mean,” she mumbles, eyes darting, “I don’t want to objectify you.”
Please do. “I think that’s the name of the game here, Twi. I don’t mind.”
She stands there, pink, twiddling her thumbs and staring at her feet. Long seconds pass before she says, “You’re soft.”
“I’m soft.”
“Yeah! Really soft, and it’s great because, y’know, I love hugs, but not everyone gives good hugs — Rarity is sort of bony, and Rainbow and Applejack are kind of hard. But when you hug me, it’s very soft, which means I can lean into it and really let you hold me tight, which I love.”
“Oh.” I press my palms into my gut. Those are my favorite kind of hugs, too. “Go on.”
“You’re very tall, which was intimidating at first, but now I appreciate it because I can rest my head on your shoulder. And your eyes are a nice aquamarine that I like to look at.” She gestures vaguely at my half-naked body, and then with an awkward chuckle, says, “I like looking at your whole body, really! Like your legs, and your arms. And your, you know, thighs. I like when you wear leggings, because I — I get to see more of them.”
I look down at my massive thighs, squished up against each other. “Good to know—”
“And your boobs.”
Hearing that in her voice might be stranger than a swear.
I snap my head up to look at her, and her blush hits a fever pitch. “Your breasts, I mean. They’re just, like. Big. And soft. And very nice. To look at. Sometimes.”
Silence, silence, silence. Say something, anything.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling. I have to push the words out, but I really do mean them. No one’s complimented me like this since — well, ever. Flash, as smooth as he might look to the uninitiated, spent way more time hormonally gawking at my body than praising it. Even Rarity never gets this detailed. “I appreciate it.”
But she isn’t done fidgeting. Digging her toe into the carpet, she asks, “Can I tell you something immensely embarrassing and that I feel sort of guilty about so please don’t laugh or be mad?” She says it all in a single breath.
A slight gust of fear rolls down my bare back. I nod. “Of course.”
“I never told you this,” she says, voice shrinking with every word, “but going to the beach with you — and Pinkie, and all the other girls, but especially you two — is sorta the thing that made me realize I might like girls.”
I’m disassociating. I can’t feel my limbs.
Twilight’s cheeks are so hot that I’m afraid my apartment might catch fire. She buries her face in her hands. “I’m sorry, it’s super weird I know, oh my gosh this is so embarrassing—”
“No, no, it’s fine!” I force myself to walk forward, and I spread my arms out for a hug. “That’s super cool! Really!”
Still covering her eyes, she edges her fingers open to peek out at me. She looks at my face, and my boobs, and my legs. And then she closes her fingers again, turns around, and scuttles backwards into me.
I make sure to hug her extra tight, just how she likes. “That’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard,” I say, making her squeak. It’s an adorable sound, too. I rest my forehead on her ponytail. “Honestly, it’s hard to believe it, coming from you — I mean, you’re beautiful. Like, legit gorgeous. I’d kill to look like you.”
Maybe not kill. But Twi is thin, delicate — I bet no one’s ever scared of her. I bet no one looks at her as a cautionary tale, glances at her in the locker room and wants to puke. I could stare at her all day.
She lowers her hands, laying them over mine. “Ironic. I’ve always wanted to look more like you.”
“Bull. You’re so pretty, you could be a supermodel.” I pause. “A real one, not just a girl with superpowers who models for Rarity.”
“I’m serious. Do you know how bizarrely proportioned my limbs are compared to other girls? Because I have. I’ve measured it. And I’m pretty sure I have less muscle mass than a jellyfish.” She sighs. “You know that in middle school, my classmates called me ‘Toothpick Sparkle?’ I appreciated the creativity, but it never felt good. Being a scrawny wimp isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“I’d rather be a toothpick than a bulldozer. Even you said it was intimidating how big I am.”
“At first. But then I got to know you.” She squeezes my hands. “You’re not scary now. You’re safe.”
She leans back, pushing her body into mine. Pressing my boobs against anyone else’s back like this would be unbearably awkward — and to be fair, this isn’t the most relaxing situation either. But I feel leagues more comfortable around Twi than I do anyone else. And the cotton t-shirt she’s wearing is so soft.
Also her limbs aren’t that bizarre. She’s just got lanky legs. And arms. And a really squat torso. Nice butt, though.
I tilt my head down, burying my face into the top of her ponytail. She smells like her laboratory: Sweat and smoke and Spike. But also something sweet — citrus? Pineapple?
“I feel like this exercise didn’t quite work the way I intended,” she says. “Do you want to keep going?”
“Sure,” I say with a smirk. Then I raise my head high and say, “My name is Twilight Sparkle, and I am the prettiest girl in Canterlot!”
“Oh, gosh,” Twilight says, covering her face again. Her blood vessels are working overtime today, she’s so flushed.
I hug her tighter and wiggle her around. “Saaaaaay it!”
She sighs, rubs her face, and then slides her headphones back on and yells, “My name is Twilight Sparkle, and I’m the cutest girl in Canterlot!”
“I’m Twilight Sparkle, and I have a really cute butt!”
She looks over her shoulder at me, gaping.
“What,” I say, shrugging, “you think that you’re the only girl who oogles her friends from time to time?”
“Honestly? Yes.” She turns back around and shakes her head. “You don’t have to do this. This is supposed to be your self-love session, not mine.”
“I insist! It’s only fair.”
A hot burst of adrenaline flares through Twilight’s veins. “Fine,” she says, pulling away from me. She’s got a crooked smile on her face. “But if this is going to turn into a real dual compliment exercise, then I have to make it totally fair.”
In one swift motion, faster than I can blink, she takes off her shirt and tosses it across the room. It lands crumpled next to my discarded pants.
I try to keep my gaze locked with hers. But I can’t fight the urge to glance down at her chest. And then one glance turns into a long stare, taking in every frill and stitch of pink fabric.
“Cute bra,” I say, tearing my eyes away. “Oatlinens?”
“Barnyard Bargains.” She twiddles her fingers. “On sale.”
She’s smiling, but she’s trembling. “You okay?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. She manages to meet my eyes. “If I can take my shirt off in front of Timber, I can take my shirt off in front of you. Besides: The whole point of this exercise is to become more comfortable about our bodies. Right?”
“Right, right. More confident about my big belly,” I say, grabbing hold of my tummy folds. Maybe it’s Twi, or maybe it’s the exercise, but suddenly I don’t feel quite so gross. I feel kinda hot. Even as I smirk and jiggle my stomach. “And my fat butt?”
“Yep. And my chicken legs?”
“Yes!” I throw my arms out wide. “I’m Sunset Shimmer, and I am wildly sexy!”
Twilight smiles with her teeth. “I’m Twilight Sparkle, and I’m wildly sexy.”
“Wildly!”
“Wildly!” Twilight says, as loud as I’ve ever heard her. “Unquestionably! Unequivocally!
I lean forward and offer her my hands. She takes them in hers.
“I’m Sunset Shimmer,” I say, “and everyone’s jealous of how big my boobs are!”
“I’m Twilight Sparkle, and apparently I have a nice butt!”
“A phenomenal butt!”
“Phenomenal,” she says through a burst of snort-laughs.
Oh, goddess damn it.
The next thing I know, we’re both cackling, swinging our arms from side-to-side like a pair of drunken apes. I try to come up with a new compliment, but I only make it three syllables in before I notice Twi wiggling her hips, her wonderful hips — I wish she’d taken off her skirt too — Is that a weird thing to think? — and I choke on my own spit.
Like, legit choke. To the point that Twi has to lead my back over to the couch and fetch me a glass of water. I gulp it fast enough that it spills down my chin, and as soon as I can breathe again, I keep laughing.
Once the heaving stops, I groan and lean back into the cushions. Twilight slips off her headphones and does the same. And we listen to the hum of Ray’s vivarium, and the cars roaring outside, and the slight wheeze under Twilight’s breath.
I know I shouldn’t ruin the moment. But there’s something on my mind, and I need to know more before I explode.
“So,” I say, trying to hide how inordinately gleeful I am, “you like girls, huh?”
Twilight’s lips curl into a tiny, furtive smile. “Yeah. Who wouldn’t?”
“Good point.” I turn to her. “Is that part of why you and Timber...?”
“No, it’s not like that. I mean, you felt my memories, you know how into him I was.” She shrugs. “It took a while for me to understand, and I’m sort of still figuring it out, but I think I just like everybody — boy or girl or whatever. You know, Equestria-style.”
That almost makes me choke again. But I swallow it and nod. “Genius.”
We’re quiet for a moment more before Twilight asks, “So, what now? Do you want to keep going with the, uh, ‘therapy?’”
Suddenly my legs feel even heavier than I know they are. “Maybe we can break for today. I’m sure you’ve got a bunch more great ideas, though.”
“No, no, not really.” She shrugs again. “Maybe a few.”
“Hit me.”
“Everything you said about the rest of the girls,” she says, “about how they don’t listen to you. I have an idea about how to solve that.”
I scoff. “You have a solution for everything, huh?”
She turns to me and says, “Sunset, I’ve been thinking about you for almost three days straight. I’m prepared.”
At least one of us is.