My inbox is full of your invisible apologies. I'm writing them for you because I know you can't.

You should know the only thing I don't forgive are those final words, unjustified, untrue, and ugly. They threaten to stain my every last loving thought of you.

I even forgive the betrayal, the living lie you brought into our sacred space. I forgive it because I know how desperately you need distraction after distraction, to keep the demons at bay.

But here is the thing. They're not really at bay. They're there. You can shove all the guilt and shame you feel right now, over this unnecessarily cruel ending, under your bed and numb yourself to sleep. But while you're drooling on your pillow, they're crawling into your open backpack. Settling into your worn out pant pockets. Clicking with finality onto your keychain.

And if you don't figure out where the fear and pain comes from, your saga of self-sabotage will never end. And the things you try and hide from will never let you be.

The only words you should have said, if any, were It wasn't you. Or maybe Just know: you are enough. I know this, of course, and have good friends to tell me over and over, as many times as I need.

But for all I gave, for all I forgave, that is the one thing I can't get past. Do with this information as you like. Make it right or don't.

I know how to write the apologies I should have gotten.