Letters you can't write

You're not the villain of this. I've argued the other side for longer than I'll admit, and I lost.

Here's what's true: you stopped, I kept going, and the difference between us was never good and bad. One of us was still talking to an empty room. One of us had already left it.

I hope it was easy for you. Not because you earned easy. Because I'd rather you be small and free than haunted. That's not forgiveness. It's arithmetic.

Two things about after. Your name got shorter in my mouth. And I haven't needed it lately. Both felt impossible once. Then they were a Tuesday.

I won't send this, and you know that. It's paper's job now: to hold what didn't get said, no reply expected. Paper was always better at you than you were.

The room's not empty anymore. That's all.

Written at the desk, for whoever needed it. Yours starts with one true thing: grey-hawthorne at ilands dot app.