A Long-Overdue Apology

Subject: A Long-Overdue Apology

From: Emily Carter

To: Daniel Monroe

Dear Daniel,

I hope this email finds you well. I've debated writing this for years, and if you're reading it now, it means I finally found the courage to send it. Please know this isn't an attempt to reopen old wounds or seek absolution; it’s simply an apology long overdue.

I’m sorry, Daniel. For

 everything.

Warm regards,

Emily

Daniel Monroe stared at his laptop screen, the cursor blinking idly beside Emily’s signature. For a moment, he thought it might be a phishing email or a cruel prank. It had been over twenty years since he’d last heard from her. Yet here she was, suddenly resurfacing with a vague apology and a tone that felt both familiar and alien.

He leaned back in his chair, letting the words settle. The years between now and their last conversation—the explosive one where she’d walked away without looking back—had weathered the memory of her. He remembered the good things: her laugh, sharp and infectious; the way she’d sketch on napkins at every café they visited; her uncanny ability to guess the endings of mystery novels. But he also remembered the arguments, the silences that grew longer with each fight, and her eventual departure.

The email had no specific details, no mention of what she was apologizing for. But Daniel didn’t need her to spell it out.

He closed his laptop and decided to walk it off. The late-autumn air in Chicago was sharp and crisp, the kind that could sting your skin but clear your mind. He strolled past coffee shops with their fogged-up windows, past couples bundled in scarves, their laughter cutting through the cold.

Her name echoed in his mind, each syllable pulling him back to a different fragment of their shared history.

2002 - New York City

Daniel and Emily had been inseparable back then. He was a struggling writer with a penchant for overanalyzing everything, and she was an aspiring artist with a knack for seeing beauty in chaos. They met at a mutual friend’s gallery opening, bonding over their shared disdain for a particularly pretentious installation involving melting ice cubes.

“We could do better than that,” she’d whispered conspiratorially, leaning in close enough for him to catch the scent of her lavender perfume.

They spent the next five years together, building a life out of dreams and late-night diner runs. Their tiny apartment in Brooklyn was always cluttered with her canvases and his typewritten drafts. But their passion wasn’t enough to stave off the cracks that eventually began to form.

Emily had always been restless, chasing inspiration like it was a fleeting shadow. Daniel, on the other hand, craved stability. Their fights grew more frequent: over money, over missed opportunities, over the gnawing feeling that they were holding each other back.

The final blow came when Emily announced she’d been offered a residency in Paris—a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She hadn’t consulted him, hadn’t asked what he thought. She’d made her decision, and it didn’t include him.

“I can’t keep waiting for you to figure things out, Daniel,” she’d said, her voice trembling but firm. “I need to do this for me.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Daniel shook himself out of the memory as a sharp gust of wind whipped past him. He realized he’d wandered into Lincoln Park, the familiar paths dusted with fallen leaves. The park had been his refuge during the pandemic, a place where he could lose himself in the rhythm of walking and forget, for a moment, the isolation of those years.

He hadn’t thought about Emily in ages—not in any meaningful way. He’d moved on, built a life for himself. His writing career had taken off, though not in the way he’d imagined back in Brooklyn. He was now a journalist for a well-respected publication, his days filled with deadlines and interviews rather than fiction.

He’d even married, briefly. Claire had been everything Emily wasn’t: steady, pragmatic, dependable. But in the end, their differences proved too great, and they’d parted amicably after three years.

Still, Emily’s email had stirred something in him, a mix of curiosity and unease. What was she hoping to achieve by reaching out now? Did she expect a response? Did he even want to give her one?

That night, Daniel found himself at his desk, staring at the blinking cursor of a reply email he wasn’t sure he’d send.

Subject: Re: A Long-Overdue Apology

Emily,

I got your email.

I have to admit, I’m not sure how to feel about hearing from you after all this time. Part of me wants to ignore it, to let sleeping dogs lie. Another part of me is curious—what prompted this?

We were a long time ago, but you mattered to me. More than I think I ever told you.

Take care,

Daniel

He hovered over the “Send” button for what felt like an eternity before finally clicking it.

Two days later, her reply came.

Subject: Re: A Long-Overdue Apology

Daniel,

Thank you for responding. I honestly wasn’t sure you would, and I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t.

To answer your question, I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting lately. Losing my mother earlier this year forced me to confront things I’ve been avoiding for years—people I’ve hurt, mistakes I’ve made. You were at the top of that list.

Leaving you the way I did was cruel, and I’ve regretted it more than I can say. At the time, I told myself I was doing the right thing, that we were too different, that I needed to find myself. But the truth is, I was scared. Scared of failure, scared of being tied down, scared of... us.

I don’t expect forgiveness. I just needed you to know that I’m sorry.

Emily

Daniel read her words over and over, his chest tightening with a mixture of anger and sorrow. Her apology felt sincere, but it also reopened wounds he’d thought had long since healed.

He found himself replying almost instinctively.

Subject: Re: A Long-Overdue Apology

Emily,

I appreciate your honesty. I really do. And I’m sorry to hear about your mom—losing a parent is never easy.

As for the rest... I won’t lie, your leaving hurt me deeply. It took me a long time to move past it, to stop wondering what I’d done wrong or why I wasn’t enough. But I also understand now that it wasn’t about me—it was about where you were in your life.

I’ve made my peace with the past, and I hope you can too.

Wishing you all the best,

Daniel

Weeks passed without a reply. Daniel told himself he wasn’t waiting for one, but the silence gnawed at him. Had his response been too cold? Too final? He hadn’t meant to shut the door completely, but maybe that’s how she’d read it.

Then, one chilly December morning, a package arrived at his door. The return address was from a small town in Vermont, a place he didn’t recognize. Inside, he found a letter and a small sketchbook.

The letter was short:

Daniel,

I wanted you to have this. It’s from a time when I was still figuring myself out, but a lot of the pages were inspired by you.

Thank you for reading my email, for responding, for reminding me of what we had. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real.

Take care,

Emily

Daniel opened the sketchbook, his breath catching as he flipped through the pages. There were quick, messy sketches of their old apartment, of the view from their fire escape, of him typing away at his typewriter. There were portraits of him, too—his face captured in moments he didn’t even remember, his expression alternately pensive, amused, and lost in thought.

For the first time in years, he let himself smile at the memory of her.

Months later, as winter melted into spring, Daniel found himself sitting at his desk, penning a letter of his own.

Emily,

It’s been a long time since I’ve written something just for the sake of writing, but your sketchbook reminded me of how much I used to love it. Thank you for that.

You’re right—what we had wasn’t perfect. But it was ours. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

Yours Truly,

Daniel