April 23, 2025
By: Rowan Hale

I don’t think you’ll ever read this. I’m not even sure I want you to. But I have to say it somewhere, before it rots me from the inside out.

I’m sorry.

I mistook desire for love, and then I mistook control for closeness. You were everything—soft, brilliant, alive—and I didn’t know how to hold that without gripping too hard.

I didn’t see you fully. I saw the parts of you that made me feel wanted, powerful, needed. But the rest of you—the dreams, the fears, the boundaries—I treated like static. Background noise I tuned out so I could play out the story I wanted.

You gave me something sacred. And I treated it like it was mine to bend and twist.

I wanted you to open to me completely, but only on my terms. And when you didn’t, I called it distance. Coldness. I made you feel like you were the one not giving enough, when in truth, I was the one taking too much.

You weren’t a doll. You weren’t a fantasy. You were a whole person standing in front of me, and I was too wrapped up in my hunger to see that.

I miss you, not just the body I used to reach for in the dark. I miss the light in your voice. I miss the way you challenged me, called me out, made me want to be better. I think I loved you—but I loved you badly.

I don’t expect forgiveness. I’m still trying to forgive myself.

But if I could do it all again—I would hold you like the miracle you are, not the mirror I used to see myself.