I think I figured it out.
From the very beginning, you had this idea of me, this fictionalized version of who you thought I was. To you, I was beautiful. I was beautifully broken and brilliantly bright. I was this extraordinary mystery you wanted to solve, to cure. I was an adventure that you so badly wanted to be a part of. You saw me the same way Quentin Jacobson saw Margo Roth Spiegelman in Paper Towns (which is why I tried to get you to read the book; i want you to understand that I am more and less than what you see, that I am a person, not an idea. You didn’t understand, though).
You fell in love with an idea of me.
I fell in love with you over time. I fell for your honey sweetened laughter and your strikingly kind eyes. I loved the way you spoke, the way you said my simple two syllable name. It sounded so different coming out of your mouth. Your arms could have held me forever and I would have been satisfied. I fell in love with each of your quirks, flaws, everything.
I fell in love with you.
I cannot blame you for not seeing who I really am. You wanted to love me so badly that you created a version that you could.
Once the curtain began to fall, you slowly got to your feet and gathered your things. When the burgundy velvet it the floor, you walked away. I was left there standing alone, hoping you’d come back. I kept hoping and hoping you would turn around and turn the light back on. I want you to realize we were worth it, to give us a second chance. At that time, I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand that you were disappointed in who I really was, maybe disappointed in yourself that you couldn’t cure the “broken girl”. I didn’t understand you fell in love with the character rather than the actress.
Porcelain Prose 