For the one that died.

When I left, it took everything in me not to reach out to him again. My hands hovered over my phone, the urge to send one last message gnawing at me. My heart begged for one last connection, one final chance to explain. But I restrained myself. I knew reaching out would only drag me back into the spiral of suffering I had fought so hard to escape.

It didn’t seem fair to leave as I had initially planned—to just vanish without a word, without any explanation. A part of me felt guilty. In my naive heart, I believed maybe he didn’t fully understand how much he had hurt me. I convinced myself that if I explained—if I laid it all out in front of him—he would understand. He wouldn’t see it as abandonment or betrayal. He’d finally get it.

But I was wrong.

The moment I told him I was leaving, I saw the fire ignite in his eyes. It wasn’t sadness or regret—it was rage. His pride wouldn’t allow vulnerability. Instead of asking why, instead of trying to understand, he met my words with a storm of cursing, blaming, and accusations. He lashed out as if my decision to leave was a personal attack, as if it was proof of my disloyalty, not the consequence of years of silent suffering.

I should have known. I had lived with that rage for years. I had spent countless nights justifying it, finding excuses for his behavior. He’s been hurt before. He’s just protecting himself. He doesn’t mean it. I clung to those excuses like a lifeline, hoping they would make it easier to bear the pain. But the truth was, I had been hurt too. I was broken too. And yet, I never allowed my pain to turn into cruelty.

For years, I fought for us. I gave everything I had to keep us afloat. I sacrificed pieces of myself, chipping away at my own heart to mend his. I ignored my own wounds, thinking that if I could just fix him, if I could love him enough, it would all be worth it in the end.

But as time passed, I began to tire. My strength waned, my patience thinned, and the love I had once given so freely turned into resentment. I began to refuse his excuses. I no longer accepted his cruelty disguised as love. And in the process, I started to change. I became colder, more detached. I mirrored his behavior—something I never thought I’d do.

The irony was that just as I began to give up, he started to change. He tried to be better. He started treating me with kindness, making small efforts to repair the damage. He did the things I had begged for all those years. But it was too late. My heart was already shattered, and I had nothing left to give.

Suddenly, I became the villain in his story. Why can’t you let go of the past? he would ask. Why are you fighting me now, when I’m finally trying? He couldn’t understand that my heart was too broken to move forward. I had been holding on for so long, and when I finally let go, I fell too far to climb back.

One day, the realization hit me: I wasn’t trying to save the relationship anymore. I was trying to save myself. The version of me that had believed in us, that had fought so fiercely for our future, was gone. She had been worn down, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

So, I left.

I packed my things quietly, knowing that staying would only lead to more pain. I left because I no longer recognized the person I had become. We had become a vicious cycle of love and hurt, of trying and failing. I didn’t want to hurt him the way he had hurt me. And I knew I couldn’t save us anymore.

He didn’t understand. He didn’t listen. He didn’t apologize. He stood there, his pride and ego refusing to let him admit fault. And I walked away, carrying the silent hope that maybe, one day, he would see. That maybe, one day, he would acknowledge the pain he caused.

Years passed. I moved to another country, started a new life far away from the memories that once haunted me. I rebuilt myself slowly, piece by piece. It wasn’t easy. The wounds he left behind didn’t heal overnight. But over time, I mended. I found strength in solitude, in the quiet moments where I learned to love myself again.

The girl who left him—the girl who cried herself to sleep, who prayed for his love, who waited for an apology that never came—she died somewhere along the way. I buried her beneath layers of resilience and self-reclamation.

And then, today, ten years later, I opened my email and saw his name.

It felt like a punch to the chest. My hands trembled as I clicked on the message. His words appeared on the screen, words I had once begged to hear. He was apologizing. Finally. He acknowledged the pain, the mistakes, the years of hurt he inflicted on me. He said he was sorry for not seeing it back then, for not listening when it mattered.

I read every word carefully, my heart pounding with emotions I thought I had buried. But as I reached the end of the email, I realized something: it was too late.

I wasn’t crying tears of relief or joy. His apology didn’t bring peace or closure. It didn’t mend the wounds that had long since scarred over. I cried for the girl I used to be—the girl who had waited for this moment, who had yearned for these words like they were the key to her freedom. She had waited so long for an apology that never came, and in the end, she died waiting.

I cried for her. For the version of myself that had been left behind in the rubble of our broken relationship. His words, now sincere and heartfelt, came too late to save her.

I no longer needed his apology. I had already mended the broken pieces without him. I had learned to live without his validation, without his acknowledgment. But the ache remained—not for him, not for the relationship we lost, but for the part of me that was lost along the way.

It was too late for her.

I wept over the grave where I buried that version of myself. And as I closed the email, I realized something important: I wasn’t mourning him—I was mourning her. I was grieving the girl who fought so hard to be loved, who gave everything she had until there was nothing left.

It was too late.

I closed my laptop, took a deep breath, and let the tears fall one last time. Not for him. Not for the past. But for the girl who had finally found peace, even if it came too late for her to see it.