A letter.
I just want to start by saying that I...I knew from the start. But you just kept insisting on trying. And you know what? Fine. We made it work, I'll give you that. We've made it work for a loooong, long time. But I can't anymore. All those nights you had me awake at two in the morning, crying in frustration and begging you to tell me why. The long hours spent locked in a standstill. I'll admit it, I stopped paying attention as much as I could have. But you just started saying the same things, over and over and over--I'm sick of it. I'm done. This is me saying it's over.
You want to know why? Why I'm throwing in the towel, why I'm through with this. It's because we don't click. We never have. I've never felt any connection to you; I know plenty of people I get along with better. You, you just sit up there, you and all your black and white mentality, everything either right or wrong, and you preach. Things I already know or things I don't understand and then you never explain them slow enough, always leave me behind. Why, to prove to me I'm inferior? Show off that intellect of yours, your fortune of experience? I don't get it, I don't care. Take it, take it and all the people you recruited to shove it in my face and leave me be. I have skills in other areas.
You've never cared, have you? About the hours and hours of work I put in just for you, unravelling your mysteries and trying to understand your point of view. Oh, sure, I had pressure on me to do just that, but I know plenty of others who didn't bother with your complicated signs and intricate, internal formulas. I should have been one of them. I could have been one of them. But no, I stuck by you. Held on to you. Tried for you. Because that was what you wanted. And what did you do, on the days I was exhausted and muddled and couldn't think straight? You rubbed my nose in it, the fact that you were the cause of my exasperation.
You never listen. It's always about you; I'm practically your slave, flying to solve your problems and attend to your every whim. Your little puppet, your little house maid. Do you know how guilty I'd feel every time I blew you off; every time I made a mistake? You didn't even see it, just taunted me with my failures. I don't even know now how I could have stayed with you this long.
There were nice time, okay? I know there were. Sometimes you're so...rhythmic and methodical, and you know what, even if I was your little doggy that came when you called, a lot of the time it was easy for me. It felt natural. But I didn't get any joy from it, and it just made all the times of struggle all the worse. You've never seemed to know me; never made any concession to my will or my feelings, like your thoughts were somewhere else. And about a year ago, I discovered why.
X.
Her. HER! That's right, I know about her. That former lover who ran away form you, the one you'll spend the rest of your life searching for. Do you know how much it hurts that I'm just your tool for finding her, a cheap replacement, an imitation? Why can't you just accept that she's gone?! GONE! She's not yours anymore, get over it! And now I'm not either.
It's over, Math.
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-Bot