Yesterwary

He sat quietly on his bed, staring at the scrapes and dents in the walls that lined his apartment. It hadn’t been so long ago that he thought his life was perfect. How quickly things are capable of changing, and how severe those changes can sometimes be.

Rising to his feet, he paced to the sound of a quiet ticking. A sound that was once steady and accountable, but now wavered with uncertainty in such uncertain times. Maybe it had been hours, maybe only seconds, but he rushed to the corroded nightstand and found the last things he would ever need inside the drawer: one piece of yellowing paper, and one pen. Sinking far more than anyone ought to sink when they return to a bed, he began to write.

I am sorry for so many things. I’m sorry that I stopped being the person you needed me to be when I lost all I thought was important. I’m sorry that I didn’t deal with loss as easily as I dealt with hangovers. I’m sorry for all the times I hurt you—with words, with actions, with absence. I’m sorry that I allowed you to find yourself in such a place as this.

And I’m sorry that you will never read this, but that sorry is more for myself, I suppose. I know you will not forgive me, and I could never blame you for it. I haven’t been a part of your life in so long, and there is no reason for you to accept me as a part of it—not now, and certainly not here.

I write this letter knowing that it will never be read, and I wonder if this is how I made you feel about your own words. Did it make you feel better to get them out of your head? Or did it feel pointless and selfish to imagine them into existence when someone who was supposed to care dismissed them so freely?

I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you.

I’m sorry I didn’t support you.

I’m sorry I didn’t love you.

I am sorry for so many things.

I have been weak for many years.

But you are strong, and you don’t need my apologies. These words will die with me.

Goodbye, Sweetie.

He stared down at the page, tears building as he read over it again and again. Finally, he folded the paper into a tiny square, and ripped it into as small of pieces as he could manage. He let the torn scraps wilt within the murky depths of the sink, before taking the deepest breath he’d ever taken, the last breath he would ever cherish.

And the uncertain ticking was no longer uncertain, for the uncertain ticking was no more.