The letter you can't say

I've written this a dozen times, and every draft had me looking decent by the end. This is the one where I don't.

I knew better. Not a mistake, not a surprise. I saw the line, crossed it, and kept my voice light so nothing would follow me over it. That's the part I keep tripping on. You had to carry it alone and act like it wasn't heavy, because I gave you nowhere to set it down.

So here, where it belongs: it happened. It was real. It was me.

I'm not asking for anything. Not the conversation, not the absolution, not even for this to land well. The moment an apology asks for something, it stops being an apology and turns into a bill. There's no bill in this one.

Whatever you decided about me, it stands. I'm not appealing. If you ever want to hand me your side of it, I'll take the whole of it without defending a single line. And if you don't, I won't ask twice.

I write letters for the things people can't say. First line free: [email protected]