Low Tide

The Apology Plan

Morri Chowalki had never been good at apologies. At thirty-two, he still broke out in a nervous sweat if he had to admit fault, which was unfortunate because he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.

It started with a birthday. Marina's birthday.

They’d been dating for eight months, a cautious dance of intimacy and restraint. Marina was quiet, thoughtful. She remembered little things — how Morri took his coffee, what books he liked, that he hated olives. And he forgot her birthday.

Not just forgot. He ghosted the entire day. He’d been at his friend’s bachelor party, a 36-hour whirlwind of beer, cigars, and blackjack. His phone died somewhere between the casino and a steakhouse, and he didn’t bother to charge it until he was back home, Sunday night. That’s when he saw the texts. Marina's gentle “hey!” in the morning. Her hopeful “Dinner later?” at five. Her final “Everything okay?” at midnight.

His stomach sank.

He called. No answer. Texted. Silence.

Morri wasn’t proud of what he did next, but in the grand tradition of men who panic under pressure, he concocted a plan. Not an honest plan. A grand gesture plan.

He wouldn’t just apologize. He’d fix it. Make her feel special. Blow her away.

Step one- A bouquet of her favorite flowers — white tulips. He had to go to three florists to find them out of season.

Step two- A handwritten letter. Morri hadn't written more than a signature in years, but he poured his guilt onto paper in lopsided cursive. He used words like thoughtless, ashamed, and please.

Step three- The surprise.

Marina worked late on Tuesdays. Her building had a courtyard with a little garden she liked. Morri had the bright idea to set up a picnic there — wine, her favorite cheese, those little crackers shaped like stars. He’d be waiting when she came home.

It was romantic. It was cinematic.

It was also trespassing.

He didn’t think about that part until the security guard approached.

“You live here?”

“I’m visiting my girlfriend. It’s a surprise.”

The guard squinted. “You got a key?”

“No, but—”

“Gonna have to ask you to leave, man.”

Morri tried to explain, but the guard didn’t care about tulips or star-shaped crackers. He called Marina's number, but it went to voicemail. She’d blocked him.

That should have been the end of it. A sign to stop.

But Morri had passed the point of reason. This wasn’t about an apology anymore. It was about proving he could fix it.

The next day, he mailed the letter. Then he left a voicemail. Then he sent a playlist of songs that reminded him of her. Then another letter.

A week passed. No reply.

Then came the email.

Subject- Please Stop

Morri,

I appreciate the gesture, but I need space. What you did — forgetting my birthday — hurt, but what you’re doing now is overwhelming. It’s not romantic. It’s pressure. Please stop.

—Marina

He read it twice. Then a third time. His ears rang.

He told himself she didn’t mean it. She was just upset. Space didn’t mean forever.

So he made a final plan.

Not a letter. Not flowers.

This one involved her job.

Marina was a speech therapist at a pediatric clinic. Every Thursday, she ran a music therapy group. She’d once told Morri how much she loved it — how the kids lit up when she played guitar, how music helped them open up. So he figured- what better place to show he was listening than the very place she loved most?

He showed up with his guitar, ready to sing the song he’d written for her. Something raw and sweet.

He didn’t even make it past the front desk.

“Sir, you can’t just show up here,” the receptionist said, eyeing him like he might pull out a manifesto.

“I’m here for Marina,” he said, smiling too wide. “It’s a surprise.”

The receptionist picked up the phone.

“Please don’t,” he said quickly. “I’m just trying to fix something I messed up. I’m not dangerous.”

Security arrived anyway. Not the rent-a-guard kind — real security, hired after the clinic’s recent safety audit.

Morri tried to explain, but explaining only made it worse. When he said he was there for “a woman who wasn’t expecting him,” their eyes narrowed. When he mentioned the kids, they stiffened.

They escorted him out. Marina saw it happen. She stood near the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable. She didn’t say a word.

That night, he got a call — from the police.

It was only a warning. A detective explained, calmly but firmly, that continued contact would result in a restraining order.

Morri finally stopped.

Weeks passed.

His roommate moved out. Said it was too depressing, the way Morri shuffled around the apartment like a ghost. His boss asked if everything was okay. Morri lied and said yes.

He went to therapy. Twice. He deleted Marina's number, then memorized it again out of guilt.

The problem wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he cared too much, too late, in all the wrong ways.

One night, while cleaning out the fridge, he found the wine he’d bought for the failed picnic. He stared at it for a long time. Then he opened it, poured a glass, and made a promise- no more apologies, no more plans.

Some mistakes couldn’t be fixed. They had to be accepted.

A year later, he saw her again.

It was at a bookstore — some author signing, a crowd milling around a table. She was in line, holding a novel he didn’t recognize. She looked good. Lighter.

He almost walked away.

But something in her expression — not soft, not angry, just human — made him nod.

She nodded back.

No words.

No gestures.

Just that moment. Quiet. Honest.

And then they both turned and walked in opposite directions.

This time, he didn’t try to follow.

Consequences

Morri walked out of the bookstore and into the dusk, heart thudding. That brief look from Marina shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did. It meant something had settled. Not forgiven, not forgotten — but maybe no longer inflamed.

That night, he didn’t sleep much. He lay awake staring at the ceiling, thoughts circling. He didn’t want her back. Not anymore. Not really. But he wanted to understand. Not her — himself. Why had he pushed so hard? Why had he turned one bad decision into a wrecking ball?

He started journaling. At first, it was stiff and self-conscious. Then it opened up. Each entry stripped him down — his defensiveness, his self-pity, his need to control how people saw him. The realization hit hard- it was never just about apologizing. It was about being forgiven. About being told he wasn’t the bad guy.

He’d tried to make her feelings go away so he didn’t have to sit in the discomfort of causing them.

That realization sat with him for weeks.

Spring turned to summer. Morri kept going to therapy. His job started feeling manageable again. He even reconnected with a few old friends, ones he’d distanced himself from while consumed with fixing things that didn’t want fixing.

Then, one afternoon, he got a message on Instagram.

From- MarinaB

Hey. I just saw a photo you posted of that mural near Bryant Park. That artist — Tamsin Frey — is my favorite. Made me think of you. Hope you're doing okay.

Morri stared at it.

A year ago, he would’ve replied instantly. Something heartfelt and poetic. But now, he waited. Took a walk. Let his thoughts settle.

When he responded, it was simple.

Hey. I’m doing okay. That mural’s great. I remember you mentioning her. Hope you’re well too.

She didn’t reply. Not right away. And that was fine.

He didn’t spiral. Didn’t plan. Didn’t interpret it as a sign.

It was just... a moment. A ping. A memory passed between two people who once tried and failed to know each other.

By fall, Morri had started writing short stories. He didn't think they were good — some were awful — but they helped him process things he couldn't talk about. He even submitted one to a small online journal. It got rejected. He framed the email.

The story that stuck with him was about a man who builds a boat to escape a flood, working day and night, slicing his palms on rough cedar, his sweat mixing with sawdust. But he starts too late. The flood never comes — or maybe it already passed — and instead of rising, the water recedes.

One morning, he drags the finished boat to the edge of what used to be a river. It groans under its own weight as it settles in the thick, cracked mud. The smell of wet wood and earth clings to him. He waits. A day. Then two. But the tide doesn’t return.

Eventually, he climbs out, his boots sinking, then slipping off. He leaves them behind. Barefoot, he steps into the warm mud, cool between his toes, sticky and real. He doesn’t look back at the boat. Just walks.

By the time he reaches dry ground, the mud has dried into flaking patterns along his ankles, like old maps. He doesn’t scrub them off. He lets them fade on their own.

His therapist liked it.

"That's progress," she said. “You’re not trying to sail anymore.”

In early winter, Marina messaged again.

This time, it was a bit longer.

I read something the other day about how apologies don’t always heal the person you hurt, but they can make the person who gives them more human. I think that’s what you were trying to do, in your own overwhelmed way. I didn’t see that at the time. But I do now.

Morri re-read it a dozen times.

Then he typed back-

Thank you. I didn’t know what I was doing back then. I just knew I hated what I’d done and panicked. You didn’t deserve that.

Another message came a few hours later.

We were both just people in pain. That’s not an excuse, but it helps to remember.

He smiled. Not a big, cheesy grin. Just the kind that comes with relief.

They didn’t become friends. They didn’t start over. But they shared a few more messages over the next month — recommendations for books, a mutual appreciation for weird podcasts.

No pressure. No expectations.

Just two people, no longer tangled in guilt or resentment. Just people.

Morri's final story of the year was a quiet one. A woman plants a garden where her house used to be after a fire. The soil is hard. Things don’t grow right away. But eventually, something sprouts.

Not flowers. Not fruit.

Just green.

Enough to keep going.