To the crankiest, moodiest, worst-tempered human being I’ve ever met,
I don’t know why, of the many people I know, I’m writing to the one I loathe the most. I could write to the people who’ve raised me with utmost love, care and respect for the person I am. I could write to the ones who’ve imparted their knowledge with me ever since I learned to identify red from blue. I could write to the people who’ve been there with and for me through happiness and sadness. I could write to the ones who actually stayed.
Yet I’m writing to you.
Actually, no, I’m not writing with consciousness. The words seem to bleed right out of my hands. Maybe that’s because my mind is turning down the spotlight for now. This is my heart speaking. I pray that, for the first time in a very long time, you’ll listen. Nothing has to change. No one is asking anybody for anything more. No one is regretting anything here. The tables have turned and we’re both happy now, but I still think that it’s not good to leave important things unsaid and unexplained just because they were supposed to be said a long time ago. That’s stupid. And cowardly. And downright, flat-out immature. If the heart still beats and the brain still works to put every beat into words, then nothing must be left unsaid.
Just listen. Or in this case, read on. And, please, let this be between you and me, and you and me only.
I think the reason why my subconscious dementedly decides to write to you is it acknowledges the presence of this huge tank of locked-up emotions I managed to keep locked all this time. It just couldn’t bear the denial I’ve set upon myself: that I didn’t owe anything to you. Out of pride and arrogance, I decided that I didn’t. Then I shut my eyes and took a few deep breaths, then I saw that I did. I do.
I owe you one very important thing. An apology.
I’m sorry. For not being the person you expected me to be. For being a thousand times more unpredictable than the weather. For irritating you with my forgetfulness and lesser appreciation for the depth of emotions. For making promises I wasn’t entirely sure I could keep. For wanting to fly away, soar, glide, be free; for not flying towards you, but away from you. But I sang to you, always, even from that distance. I’m sorry you had to fight that hard and hold your breath a minute too long just to preserve whatever it was that we had. I’m sorry you felt like you were fighting alone; like I loosened the grip I held on your hand when I didn’t realize it. I’m sorry I wasn’t understanding or patient enough to put up with you in both your strength and vulnerability. I’m sorry for not being as selfless as you were. I’m sorry for having such a crowded, messed-up head; you had to hassle yourself trying to maneuver through it. I’m sorry I had (and still have) a very aggressive mind and a weak heart– a heart that was hesitant to love you in all extremities for fear of destroying such a fragile, beautiful creature. You were one of the many things I never wanted to gamble with. You were my biggest risk– in all senses of the idiom. I’m sorry I wasn’t ready for the future we thought we could reach together. I’m sorry I didn’t love you in the way you deserve to be loved, because I was young and naive then; because you came into my life years too early. I’m sorry that, of all the many people you know, you had to come across a person whom you never thought could hurt you in the worst way possible. And you fell, broke your crown, then I came tumbling after.
From time to time I think about you, but it’s only now that I decide to actually let out what I’ve been meaning to, because I’m braver and wiser now. I’ve grown up, thanks to you.
Tables will turn again and tides will have to change, but whatever’s said and meant in this letter will stay as it is. By then, I’ll come across you with a weightless heart because I’ve done what I’m supposed to. Wow, I’m nineteen days late for New Year’s. Well, I always am. Late, I mean.
I wish you all the love in the world. You deserve it and more.
PS: If you feel like you have to, write back.