CLOSURE

Guilt, that insidious venom, coils within, consuming from the inside out. It wages a relentless war—a battle fought on the most intimate front: you against yourself. Most times, we emerge battered, for we wrestle with our own shadows. I’ve played the victim, tracing my healing journey through the wilderness, seeking a sanctuary where I can unburden myself of hate, where peace awaits like a distant mirage. I’ve confronted my demons, calling each by their name—the architects of my inner turmoil. But in your story, I am the monster—the antagonist who haunts your nights. Yours is that one chapter I’ve always dreaded, etched in regret. Inked with courage, today, as the sun hangs low, casting long shadows, I choose to face it head-on. It’s probably up there with the books I regret writing, the plays I regret starring in. But today looks like a good day to die hard. I’m giving it one last go, my heart laid bare, my soul trembling on the verge of a revelation.

My teenage years—the unrestrained chapter of my life. I learned and unlearned a lot, made choices—some I’d rather forget. But the weight I carry, the burden that gnaws at my soul, lies in the monsters I birthed. This isn’t a plea for sympathy; it’s my final confession. I once believed maturity shielded me from seeking validation, yet here I am, yearning for your forgiveness, your pardon. I imagined release would come when you set me free, but memories still sting—a relentless haunting. Could I rewrite the stars, sculpt a happier ending? I am not that great at magic as we already saw, everything I touch turns to dust. I would probably break the stars as well.

You said you’ve been fighting too. Fighting to break free from me, from the demons I unleashed upon you. You confessed your inability to forgive yourself for the aftermath—the wreckage you went on and left in another’s heart. Memories, pictures, even our texts—they all churn disgust within you, you said. Perhaps you’ve imagined it: a blade against my throat, severing the ties that bind us, putting an end to the painful memory of me. It would be a final escape, a silence where my picture could no longer wound you. But here’s the truth: I don’t believe you hate me as fiercely as you claim. You’re trapped in this saga, holding someone—perhaps me—accountable for the chaos of our shared past. Amidst it all, you’ve forgotten how to love yourself.

You said you no longer trust a word I say, yet you once confessed to feeling something real. Back then, everything you felt was authentic I promise you—none of it was scripted. Even though I said I didn’t love you afterwards. That was just a ghost in the moment because I loved every part of you. But you chose to discard it all, clinging to the bitter ending, forgetting the beautiful process—the cute hugs, our unwavering support for each other. Hatred clouded your memories, and I understand—we all need something to blame, right? An escape from reality.

But let me ask: Do you recall how it all began? Our first day as strangers in that classroom? The nights we spent together during lousy times? The moment I taught you the lyrics to “I’m the One”? A song you grew to hate because of me. And those form 5 climax party pictures you eagerly showed me? What about that night behind the TT, discussing our youth and our compatibility? Our shared Physics lessons, when we sat together and comprehended nothing being taught? the secret “chits,” those tiny letters exchanged every night—burned up now you claim, did you burn all of them though? You know, I can pardon those but the kisses—the ones that left us breathless, eyes closed, lost in each other’s souls—don’t you remember any of that? Or that Saturday with Izoo keeping watch? If all these moments have soured for you, then perhaps pointing a gun at my head is your right.

I can’t continue like this any longer. Every day, it’s me saying I’m sorry, carrying this guilt like an anchor. I understand—I don’t expect you to apologize because, in your near-perfection, you have nothing to atone for. But on some nights, I wonder: What if you had stopped pushing me against that wall when I declared we were done, when I confessed my weariness with the relationship? What if you hadn’t gifted me those chocolates or penned that note on April 18th? And those early morning and late-night texts—the ones I despised—what if you’d ceased sending them? You pushed my buttons relentlessly, and I’m sorry that this is the first time I’m admitting this. Overtime, guilt silenced me; It made me forget how to express my feelings. I don’t seek an apology or an explanation; I’m merely unburdening myself. Yet, I still wonder if things might have unfolded differently. Perhaps I wouldn’t have uttered those hurtful words to you that day.

And about the hatred you harbour—I have grown to believe that it’s not directed at me; it’s aimed at you. You’ve grown to despise yourself for allowing our shared history to unfold. You blame your vulnerability, your willingness to let me take advantage of you. Yes, I hate myself for that too. I once believed admitting fault would soften your heart, make you love yourself more, and perhaps forgive me. But I’m done with that now. The monster born from our tangled past—you’ve to lay it rest. You have to forgive yourself and learn to love you again. We only live once and I wouldn’t imagine holding onto a dagger in my heart for all these years.

You know, whenever you express those negative sentiments—about hating me, struggling to let go, or finding me disgusting—I can’t bring myself to believe it. Why? Because you embody perfection. Your heart remains untainted, impervious to poison. You’re a rarity—a genuinely good person in a world that often falls short. I’ve known you deeper to say that there’s no trace of ill will or grudges within you, even after all these years. You’ve brushed off others’ opinions, prioritizing your well-being. Frustration may gnaw at us, but you? You’re an angel. I’m not gas-lighting you; this is my truth. You deserve peace, love, and happiness. And yes, you once said I wasn’t your type. Perhaps you were right—I didn’t deserve you.

I wasn’t always the person you now perceive. Once, I danced in the rain, chased fireflies, and whispered wishes to drifting dandelion seeds. I turned tires into makeshift cars. What I mean is, I wasn’t born a monster; I was merely naive. I believed in the world, in love. Like everyone else, I’ve felt pain, laughed through tears, clung to someone who hurt me bad until I had to forgive myself. I’ve been hurt too—I’m no Hulk. Before you, I was taken for granted by someone I thought loved me deeply. It’s childish to blame them for my actions toward you. No, I messed up, and I apologize. Believe it or not, I am new. Hate and regrets no longer weigh me down; I’ve rekindled my capacity to love. You once cursed my love life, and perhaps that fool deserved it for the pain inflicted upon you. But guess what? I found love. I’ve outgrown that curse. I’ve atoned for my wrongs, even if you never acknowledged it. Maybe the universe heard my plea. We don’t have to continue like this; it’s time to move on—forever.

I never imagined I’d reach this point, but our recent conversation pushed me here. You mentioned stopping taking yogurt because of that one tin I bought you on May 14, 2022. I may have laughed it off, but it stung. Not because of the yogurt itself, but because you’ve cast me as a devil—a role that doesn’t sit right with me. I hope you can enjoy yogurt again without seeing it as some witch’s potion delivered to your doorstep by the devil one morning. And thank you—for that wood-ball lesson, a memory I’ll forever treasure.

I didn’t need to write all this, you know. But every time I tried to smooth things over, you’d recoil, disgusted, and wish me a good day. Ironically, that’s the same word I told you I was tired of that January morning. I am done proving anything to you. This version of me would never intentionally hurt you or anyone else. I won’t carry the sins of that boy who caused pain. I won’t pay for his transgressions any longer. I’m not the same person I was back then, I’ve grown, I’ve learned, I’ve changed. I’ve confronted my flaws, my mistakes, my demons. I have become a better person, one worthy of love, worthy of forgiveness. I hope you can see that I hope you can believe that. With this letter, I am freeing myself from the burden of my guilt. I’m moving forward, learning to love myself. I hope you can find it in your heart to do the same. Now, unburdened, I feel better. This is the closure I’ve longed for, even if it became clear I wouldn’t get it from you. But as you once said, “I’d like to see you happy, so take care.”

Farewell DOVE, may we both find peace.

                                                        ~The Imperfect Writer