Dear Spence,

It’s been a while since you first proved to me that you were not one of us. 

Don’t argue.  You are not one of us.  You are so far from being one of us that it’s not even funny. 

Don’t try to play this down, and don’t try to blame this on me. 

You wish you had never told me?  Well so do I.  I mean, my god, you control the weather! 

Did you really think that once you convinced me you were telling the truth about this that I would be able to look at you the same way?

Yeah sure, you are the same person you were before you told me, but I am not the same person I was.  Now, I am one big ball of bewilderment and fear. 

Of course I’m afraid. 

Not of you, not exactly.  It occurs to me that you could chose to strike me dead with a well-placed bolt of lightning or flood my neighborhood and knock me unconscious with giant hail, but I don’t believe that’s your nature.  You are kind and trusting.  You expect the best of people, and that’s what scares me.  The fact that you shared your secret with me after only knowing me for three months tells me that you are too trusting, and it’s not safe to be around you.  Some day you’re going to tell someone who doesn’t love you, and that person will want to own you.

Once your secret goes viral, everyone close to you will be shark food for journalists seeking exclusives, and the power hungry seeking leverage.  All of us will become commodities, and we will be consumed and discarded. You, on the other hand, will be destroyed, and I can’t have that on my head.

The really crappy part of this whole thing is that I really do love you. 

I’m going to miss you, but please…lose my number.