Consider this my apology for meeting you at a very young age, when  I was vulnerable and you were the quiet comfort I taught myself to crave. How long has it been? Six, seven years? Remember when I had a list of things I wanted, and you tried to make them all come true? I was writing a love story, and its rough draft, I still keep, with all its black ink splotches, torn paper where words were scratched out too hard.

I'm sorry for the way I did not cherish how tightly you held me to keep my pieces from falling apart all over again. I remember all those late nights you drove me home, a block away from my house because my mother didn't approve of you, and how, in our many walks together, we turned sharp corners to avoid your parents' passing car, because they didn't approve of me, either.

 Back then, I thought that was our biggest problem. Not being able to date who you wanted to date was such a big deal, and there were times, I admit, when it seemed like I would've been able to take a break up more than the pressure of always sneaking out, throwing my shoes down the ground, then landing softly on my feet so no one would hear me. One time, I sprained my ankle jumping down to see you.

I still have all the boxes you gave me. One full of candy, the other of small trinkets you collected throughout the days. You built those boxes yourself, you painted them purple, my favorite color at that time, and even now, at an age where I thought I'd at least be with someone (but I'm not), that's still the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.

We used to fight about the smallest things, but it was one of those small things that brought us to the end. To be honest with you now, I don't even remember anymore why I wanted space, one you were so eager to give me, when there used to be a time when we both hated saying goodbye, and you promised one day we wouldn't have to, cause we'd be going home to a house of our own. Imagine my surprise when, after one fight too many, I said I was tired, and I guess you were, too. A few months ago, I went back to read our old messages, and for every one of mine, there were at least four coming from you, but now the tables have turned and I'm on the outside, looking in.

I wish I'd met you today under more optimistic circumstances. I wish I was the one waiting for you to come home, the one you'd sent flowers to just because you thought it would make me happy. It would have made me so happy. 

Consider this my apology for taking a part of you that you no longer can give to her; for giving you a part of me that you'll always want to give back, but will not, because you can't go back to our sepia toned past, always asking, always wondering what would have happened if we gave it another try.

This is my apology for leaving, but looking at you now, I have nothing to be sorry about. All your dreams came true, every single one of them. You were wrong about one thing, though. One tiny detail that used to mean the most to you: I'm not the one to have built it all with you.