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// Letter of Intent 
// Story: Letter of Intent 
// by Flea Candy 
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Letter of Intent










My dearest Sweetie Belle,

        Please do not take this letter and the actions that will follow after as a sign that I do not love you. I do love you, and I want you to know it. I want you to, above all, remember that. You’re a smart mare; you’ve always have been. You can do it. I believe in you. I’ve always believed in you - that you’d get your cutie mark, that you’d follow your dream of moving to Manehatten, that you’d find a stallion that would treat you like the princess that I knew you would become. 

        We’ve had our differences, haven’t we? I remember the year you decided to dye your mane bright orange, and I took it as - and I quote - “an offense to fashion”. You may have seen it as something silly, but I saw it as something that might have changed you. I don’t want you to change. I want you to grow, surely, but not change. You’re perfect just the way you are, no matter what that might be. I realize it now, but I was afraid then. 

        In some ways, you make me feel old. I was there when you said your first word (“Please”), when you took your first steps, when you looked into the eyes of another pony and said that you would have them and hold them until death do you part. But I’m not your mother, though not for a lack of trying. 

        In some ways, you make me feel young. Whenever you smile at me, I’m younger - young enough to want your approval and your friendship. Whenever you dance or you sing, I’m younger - a little schoolfilly looking at another and wanting to be them when they grow up. And it’s true. You’re who I want to be when I grow up, Sweetie Belle. You are kind and beautiful and graceful and happy. That’s all I really wanted out of life, now that I think about it.

        While we’ve always been sisters, I don’t think that we’ve ever truly been friends. You were too young, and I was too old. Even when you grew into a mare, I thought myself too old to be your companion. I was wrong. I just realize that now. I was wrong because you’re never too old to be a friend, to be a sister. 

We haven’t spoken in awhile, Sweetie Belle. I just want to express something that I would have never been able to talk about before, especially not with you. It was my fault that you felt driven away to Manehatten, never to return. It was my fault that we got in that argument. It was my fault that you left Ponyville for the last time. I’m sorry. All that I want is your forgiveness and if not that, your understanding. I was bitter, I was angry, and I was almost maddened by the fact that you had become so successful so quickly when it had taken me so long. I felt like an old maid, watching her younger sister take all the glory from her pitiful little life. That was why I was so nasty to you before you left for Manehatten. That was why I never wrote. That’s why I’ve never come to see your foals, my niece and nephew. That was why you banished me from your heart. But now, I know and I have accepted that I was wrong on this too. 

You’ll never have me to do that to you again, I promise you this. You should get this letter shortly after I'm gone.

I’ve never been the greatest of sisters, but I’ve always gotten it right on one point - sisters are supposed to love each other. I just hope you can love me back.


Simply, 

Rarity


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        Sweetie Belle swished her tail back and forth as she waited for the train to arrive, humming a sweet little melody. Some in the crowd of ponies around her stared blankly at the tracks, while others looked at their watches or twirled their manes or otherwise did as they usually did to occupy themselves in times of boredom. Sweetie Belle, for her part, wasn’t bored. She was excited. Her new single was dropping tonight, and she was sure that this one was going to be the one to put her on the map. Gone would be the days of singing for commercial jingles or at local hoofball games or in the shower. Now they’d have to pay to hear her voice on the airwaves. Even her husband might have to slip her a bit everytime he heard her sing to the kids at bedtime. Everything was turning up Sweetie Belle.

        When the train arrived, she stopped her humming and instead used her hooves to tap out a beat before she boarded. She took her seat and began to sing little made-up songs under her breath. So went her second train ride of the day. By the time she arrived at her station, Sweetie Belle had run through all the songs that she could think of that she hadn’t sold the rights to twice over. But that didn’t bother her. There’d always be plenty of songs to write, plenty of songs to sing, plenty of songs to make a living off of. She hopped off the train and walked up the steps to the street with all the other working stiffs. Even the city air seemed better today. She took a deep breath and headed off, walking the four blocks to her apartment. Her husband was there to greet her at the door, a grim look on his face.

        “Sweetie Belle, there’s something you should see.”

        He said this with such a dour tone in his voice that Sweetie Belle’s mind instantly went to her foals.

        “What’s wrong? Are the children alright? Are you alright? Gosh, are Apple Bloom and Scootaloo alright?”

        Her husband merely levitated a letter from the kitchen table, and she grabbed it with her own telekinetic field. 

        Sweetie Belle began to read. Then, she began to cry.