I don’t know if you’ll ever read this.
But if you do—I want you to know something simple:

I’m not writing this to fix anything.
Not to pull you back

Not to prove I’ve changed.

I’m writing because I have things to say that no longer fit inside silence.
Because part of love—real love—is telling the truth, even when no one’s listening.

So here’s the truth today:
I miss you.
Not just the moments or the feeling of being wanted—but you. The actual you.
The one who could look at me and see through everything.
The one who could level me with a single word, or heal me with half a sentence.

I hurt you.
And it didn’t come from a place of wanting to hurt—it came from fear, from weakness, from believing I was already losing you and trying to feel like I still had some power.
But hurting you didn’t give me power.
It gave me regret.

You don’t owe me forgiveness.
But I owe you this:
I am not hiding behind excuses.
I am not waiting for a clean moment to reach out.
I am simply being here—open, quiet, and real.

This journal is for both of us.
A space for what never got to be said.
Maybe you’ll read it.
Maybe you won’t.
But I’ll keep writing it anyway.

Because love that’s real doesn’t need a reply.
It just needs a place to speak.

And if you ever want to reply, you have my number.

I will never hurt or betray you again.  You are safe.

—M