I know what I did. I was very aware of what I was doing as it was happening. I still don’t know why I did it. Something about wanting to truly hurt you and knowing how to exactly do it. That’s the problem with us being so close. I knew exactly how to totally and completely dismantle you piece by piece and leave you in the broken heap. I knew how to do it and I figured that if I was going to try and ruin you then I was going to do it well.
I’m a perfectionist like that.
And a terrible person as it turns out.
I don’t think sorry really cuts it at this point. Or that it ever really would have. It’s not the kind of thing where you can just drop that five letter word and then everything is hunky dory again. What I did is something that I can never really come back from in that sense.
And I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I played so dirty.
I’m sorry that I made a calculate decision and weighed out all the pros and cons. The good and the bad and still decided that the extent of the cons wasn’t worth it. The fuss and the pain. All of it. I still decided that it was worth it.
I’m sorry that I threw everything that we had away. The life that we had carefully curated and built up, I took a sledgehammer to it and to be perfectly honest with you, I liked doing it. For some inexplicable reason I enjoyed striking at the foundations hard and watching them slowly start to crack. I took a weird sense of glee in it. It felt like I found something that I was good at and so I just kept going with it.
Figures it would be total and utter destruction that I would truly excel at in life.
I’m sorry that I just didn’t stop. That I kept pushing and pushing and pushing until I knew that you were broken beyond repair.
I’m sorry that I treated it almost like a sport.
I’m sorry I waited for so long to say I’m sorry.
I don’t expect you to forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive me. I barely want to live with me if I’m being perfectly honest so lord knows why you would ever think to forgive me. I would totally understand if you didn’t even bother opening this letter to read it. I would take a match and strike it and then watch the crisp white pages curl onto themselves in a blaze of orange and black.
But I was told I had to do this. I have to atone and all that jazz. So I’m starting with you.
I’m sorry. Whether you want to believe that or not it is your prerogative.
But I am. Sorry.
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