The Apology I Owe Myself.

Letters I never sent: Episode Five

Hey, Doroo.

It’s me. Or maybe it’s you–just older, heavier with scars, still carrying the echoes of that night. I don’t know if you’d even recognize me now, but I owe you something. Something I should’ve given you a long time ago, an apology.

That night is still clear–trapped in your mind with a cruelty time has never softened. You’d rushed to the Dining Hall because a friend told you to, and there they were, under that fene tree by the DH pavement: her and the boy she called her best friend, lips locked, bodies pressed tight.

The sight burned into your memory, sinking deeper with every second you stood frozen, praying it was a nightmare. You even pinched yourself, desperate to wake up, but reality held firm. Your heart dropped to the ground that night, shattering into pieces too sharp to ever hold again.

Tears broke loose, streaming as she tried to convince you it wasn’t what it looked like, as if you were too blind to know the difference. Back in the dorm, you buried your face in the pillow and wailed like a widow. You sought sleep as an escape, but the image replayed in your dreams on a cruel loop until you blacked out.

I can still see you clearly. The next morning–S.4.L, sitting at the front desk by the wall, stiff in that faded shirt and those ironed grey trousers you thought made you look composed, maybe even a little grown. Your back straight, your eyes stubbornly fixed on the chalkboard, trying not to look back. Your mind was drifting far away.

I can still see you glance just over your shoulder and catch her gaze. You thought she would shy away, but no–she kept staring straight into your soul, showing no remorse, as if you were the one at fault last night. You couldn’t comprehend it all, so you let a tear roll down your cheek and whispered the question that had no answer: “Why?” Here’s the thing, all you’d ever been guilty of was love. You hadn’t hurt anybody.

And here’s the part that guts me: instead of protecting you, I betrayed you. I turned on you. I called you weak, as if vulnerability was a crime. I told you to man up, as if manhood meant swallowing grief and smiling through broken teeth. I told you that your softness was the reason you got hurt, when it was actually the most beautiful thing about you. You didn’t fail because you loved too much; you only suffered because the world didn’t know what to do with a heart that pure.

But I blamed you anyway. I mocked your late‑night tears, scolded you for hoping, punished you for being human. I took that fragile heart of yours–the one that beat with so much honesty, so much innocence–and I hardened it. I dipped it in stone and told you it was safer this way. I built walls around it, brick by brick, whispering that no one should ever be let that close again. I called it wisdom, I called it strength, but really it was fear. It was cowardice dressed up as armor. That’s on me.

So, this letter? It’s my apology.

I’m sorry for not standing up for you when everyone else laughed.

I’m sorry for the tears you shed at the pavilion, calling on the spirit to mend your broken heart.

I’m sorry for every night you spent alone, believing no one would ever choose you.

I’m sorry for letting Victoria’s voice echo louder than your own.

I’m sorry for not telling you then what I know now: That heartbreak did not mean you were unworthy. That love did not end with her.

That one girl’s betrayal was never the universe’s verdict on your soul.

You see, bro, you didn’t know it back then, but that moment would follow you. It would crawl under your skin and refuse to leave. It would make you doubt every smile, question every hug, mistrust every “I love you” that came after. It would turn you into a track star–the guy always running, never staying; the one who ghosted, who broke first in fear of being broken. It would make you sabotage the good before it had a chance to grow. And I’m sorry–for letting that pattern take root in you.

I should’ve told you the truth: that you were enough. More than enough. I should’ve told you that admitting you were hurt didn’t make you weak–it made you real. That your heart wasn’t broken because it was fragile, but because it was brave enough to open wide in a world that rarely deserves it.

You may not believe me right now, because I know you still hear her voice when you close your eyes. I know you still see her smile when you try to move on. But trust me, my g, she wasn’t your whole story. She was just a chapter. Painful, yes, but not permanent.

And if I could go back, I wouldn’t tell you to toughen up.

I wouldn’t tell you to ignore it, cut everyone off, and carry it alone like a “man.”

I’d tell you to feel it all. To cry louder. To scream if you have to.

To let it burn through you instead of letting it bury itself alive inside your chest.

Because the truth? Suppressing it only kept the wound fresh.

We never really healed. We just carried it forward–day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year.

And everyone else you hurt after? In the name of moving on?

I owe them an apology too, but more than that, I owe you one.

I’m sorry for dragging you through those bodies of regret, sorry for making you believe the only way to heal was to break someone else.

I’m sorry that I let you carry the weight of those mistakes like chains around your ankles, long after the dust had settled.

You’ve been holding on to that guilt for too long, sir. I made you believe you were a monster who deserved a cage, as if one heartbreak had turned you into some kind of villain. You weren’t a monster. You were a kid. A kid who with pure intentions. A kid who was forced into survival mode because no one ever told him how to process betrayal without becoming a little cruel himself.

I convinced you that hurting others would make you feel better. That if you handed out pieces of your pain, maybe it would weigh less on your shoulders. But every time you tried, it backfired. It didn’t soothe you; it hollowed you. It left you feeling dirty, ashamed, like you were walking around with blood on your hands. And then I blamed you again for that shame.

But hear me: you’ve got to stop beating yourself up over them. You were only young–naïve in the truest sense of the word. Yes, you broke them. Yes, you made choices that haunt you. But you don’t have to hold yourself accountable forever. You don’t have to live in a courtroom where you’re both the accused and the judge.

You made mistakes, but you were human. You were learning. And even though you left some scars on your trail, it doesn’t mean you were beyond redemption. You don’t need to keep punishing yourself. You don’t need to keep reliving the sentences you’ve already served.

I wish you could see yourself the way I see you now. That boy in front of the classroom, the one who thought his world had ended because a girl chose someone else, the one who believed true love died with her selfish act–that boy was still a miracle. You didn’t see it then, but even in your pain you kept showing up. You still stood tall when you were breaking inside. You still pushed through every day, even when it felt pointless. You kept going.

A fact? You didn’t deserve what happened with Victoria. You didn’t deserve the betrayal, the mockery, what she said after. And you didn’t deserve to carry it for more than a decade after. That was my job–to heal, to release, to grow–but I dragged you along like dead weight. Every time I ignored a text, every time I pushed someone away, every time I made love collateral damage–it was your ghost I was protecting. And that’s unfair to you.

So, here’s my promise: I’m trying now. I’m learning to fight the whispers instead of feeding them. I’m trying to sit in love instead of running from it. I’m trying to tell the truth when it hurts, to stay present even when my demons say “leave first.” Because you deserve to see what happens when we stay.

I can’t rewrite the past, brother. I can’t go back to that night and whisper in your ear that it will be okay. I can’t put my hand on your shoulder as the tears fall and say, “Don’t worry, she won’t matter as much as you think.” I can’t. But I can honor you now. I can carry you differently. I can promise that when I say “I love you” to someone, I’ll mean it as action, not just words.

And when I fail–because I probably will–I’ll no longer call you the failure. I’ll own it as mine. I’ll stop blaming the boy in the faded grey trousers for the mistakes of the man he grew into.

So, thank you. Thank you for surviving what I sometimes thought would kill you. Thank you for holding on even when we felt unworthy. Thank you for being soft in a world that wanted us hard. Thank you for smiling even when our heart was frowning. Thank you for loving even when we were unloved in return. Without you, I wouldn’t exist. Without you, I wouldn’t be writing this.

So here it is, bro–the letter I owed you. An apology stitched with truth, written years late but written all the same. I don’t know if it heals you. I don’t know if it heals me. But it’s honest. And maybe that’s a start.

And for one last time, I remain, yours truly,

~The Imperfect Writer, born from your pain.