It started as a journaling prompt:
Write a letter to someone who hurt you.
But I didn't stop at one. I wrote five.
Each one folded like an offering—inked in truth, not apology.
Except for the last one. That one was for me.
To Daniel:
You were never consistent, but I kept showing up anyway.
I confused attention with care. Wanted to win your affection like it was a prize. I waited for your text messages like they were confetti—rare, unpredictable, but just enough to make me think a celebration was coming. You knew what to say to keep me on the hook.
"Miss you,"
"Thinking of you,"
"You're different."
But I was never different enough for you to stay. And still, I played along. Because deep down, I thought if I could be chosen by you—the emotionally distant, emotionally unavailable you—it meant I was finally good enough to be kept.
But I ignored every blinking light, every ache in my chest, every whisper that said,
This isn't love. This is survival dressed in romance.
Still…
I forgive you.
And more importantly, I forgive me—for needing you to want me.
To Liam:
You were kind. Too kind.
And I hated you for it.
Not because you were boring. But because you mirrored the part of me that felt unworthy of soft things.
I still remember how you'd wipe my tears before I even admitted I was crying. How you'd say "You don't have to be strong today" on the days I tried hardest to be.
And I… I rejected you slowly. Politely. Not with cruelty, but with performance. I made you small so I wouldn't feel seen. I kept you around so I didn't have to sit with myself.
You made me safe, and I mistook safety for suffocation. You didn't deserve that.
And I'm sorry.
To Julian:
You spoke like a poet and vanished like a ghost.
I fell in love with the silence between your texts. The way you withheld, how you made me earn every drop of closeness. You didn't play games. You were the game.
You'd say things like: "I just feel connected to your mind."
Then disappear for three days. I'd reply, "Same," pretending I didn't refresh our thread a hundred times waiting for a reply.
I thought I could change you. Make you choose me. Make you stay. But the truth is—I chose your distance so I wouldn't have to face mine.
Thank you for the lesson, even if it hurt.
To Andre:
You weren't my soulmate. You were my mirror.
You showed me my own armor. My intellect as defense.
My tenderness wrapped in logic. We knew all the language:
Attachment theory. Emotional regulation. The Inner Child.
We could dissect our arguments like seasoned therapists.
But we forgot how to feel.
We missed each other completely in plain sight. I wish I had been softer. But mostly, I wish I had known how.
You didn't break me. You revealed me. And in some strange way, I loved you for that.
To Matteo:
You weren't mine to keep.You were mine to remember.
You didn't promise me anything. I wove the fantasy. I filled in the blanks. I handed you the script.
You just held it.
You reminded me that I was allowed to feel joy without productivity. To be still. To be touched. To be free. We didn't talk about the future, but I pictured it anyway—waking up in cities where I didn't know the language but somehow still felt at home.
He made Florence feel like the center of the universe, even if just for a week.
I loved that version of myself with you. The one who laughed loudly. Who wore linen dresses and no makeup.
Who said "yes" to gelato at midnight, to dancing barefoot on cobblestones, to kissing without needing meaning.
That freedom stayed—even after you left. And then… the hardest letter.
To Me:
I'm sorry for being so cruel.
For turning you into a project. For calling you "too much" and "not enough" in the same breath. For teaching you to hustle for love and silence your softness. I'm sorry for every time I told you, "We're fine," just to avoid admitting we were exhausted. You did what you could with what you knew. You tried to protect us the only way you knew how:
By staying one step ahead.
By being the girl who never needed help.
By holding your breath in every room that didn't feel safe.
But you're safe now. You can exhale. You don't have to earn rest.
You don't have to shrink for someone to stay. You don't have to understand everything before you're allowed to feel it.
I see you. I love you. And I'm not going anywhere.
Love,
Me
No one will ever read these letters.
They weren't meant to.
Because forgiveness isn't always about being understood.
Sometimes, it's just about letting go of the script.
So you can finally write something new.
That night, I folded each letter and tucked them into a small box—the kind people use for keepsakes or jewelry.
I slid it into the back of my drawer, behind old university IDs and postcards from Baguio and Barcelona.
Not to revisit.
But to remember.
That healing doesn't always look like a grand finale.
Sometimes, it's five letters and one soft "I'm sorry."
Sometimes, it's drinking salabat instead of wine.
Sometimes, it's staying in on a Friday night and writing the words you were afraid to say out loud.
And sometimes, it's realizing that the most important apology you'll ever write—
Is the one you never have to send