My dearest love,

Please know that I deeply regret the pain that this note will cause. The bitter truth is that I have not been entirely honest with you and, sadly, I find the prospect of correcting that unpalatable.

I never told you that when I was young, I came to understand that I was somewhat different than other people. I taste words. My doctor calls this lexical-gustatory synesthesia, but I believe my condition to be more peculiar even than that. Not only do I taste words, but sentences as well.

To me, “bitter truth” is not just hyperbole. The truth is bitter, and horribly so. Lies, however, are refreshingly sweet and that is most unfortunately ironic.

I know that, except for a very few trivial lies, you have only ever been truthful with me. I am sorry to say I find that increasingly distasteful, but it would be equally intolerable for you to lie to me simply to ease my discomfort, for then I should know that you could not be trusted.

I must therefore leave you, my love. Pity me, for I am in hell.