Reflecting upon my own misery,

I now see that perhaps I was wrong.

The time spent doubting your mysterious ways,

lead me to fear the sight of you.

I dreaded eye contact and interactions.

You began to be less human,

more symbolic,

representing the regrets and imperfections of my life.

Although, I never hated you.

I admit, at first, I villainized you.

I questioned how anyone could cause such harm.

Yet it was unintentional.

I understand that now.

I realized when I saw you once again,

you genuinely thought you were doing the suitable thing.

You simply did the wrong thing for the right reasons.

Intentions speak louder than mistaken actions.

For months I played the victim.

I managed to write an entire novel that I kept locked away for only my eyes to constantly re-read.

Sorrowfully, I recognize I am the villain in my own story.

I’m sorry.