Miranda,
Firstly, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I couldn't say these things to you sooner. I'm sorry I left you so unprofessionally, without a word. I'm sorry I couldn't be your assistant when you needed me to be. I'm sorry I became the disappointment you always expected me to be.
Of course I owe it to you to give a reason. So here I am, writing to you, because even in my final farewell I can't find the courage to tell you in person how I feel.
Who knew that one could play for time, even in a letter?
I left Runway - no, that does you an injustice - I left you in Paris because I fell in love with you.
Please believe me that I tried to continue working as usual for the longest time. I told myself that this feeling would go away. I prayed it would. Then, in Paris, and after what felt like a lifetime of loving you, I knew that I couldn't go on. Not like that. Not pretending that everything was the same as before: that I was content to be just your assistant. At the hotel, when I most wanted to reach out to you, you told me that you just needed me to do my job. At that moment, I realised I couldn't.
You are the most fascinating, charming, intelligent lady I've had the pleasure of meeting and that, Miranda, is why I had to leave you.
You may wonder why I took so long to write to you and explain myself. The truth is that I needed to decide what was best for me now. New York is filled with too many memories and if I am to give myself any chance of mending this broken heart, I need to leave this city, and you, behind.
In my last act of cowardice, I leave you this letter on my way to the airport.
I wish you all the best in your future ventures and hope that you find someone who will love you as much, and treat you as well, as you deserve.
With all my heart,
Andrea