Into the Velvet

The First Breakthrough

Bianca,

I'm writing this letter for myself as a reminder of how to take accountability. A way of telling you the things that I would've done differently, if I'd possessed even a shred of wisdom then.

You've always been able to see through my adult act. Through my attempts at sophistication. Everyone else has wasted so much of their time, lauding me for being beyond my years — when it had always been you. I'm not anything special. You are. You've always been too smart for me.

Because you were right. I messed everything up. I did this all to myself.

That was what I should've said to you in the carpark. Instead, I'd said many other things — things that should never have been uttered. Things I didn't mean.

But I've learned something new during my stay here. I've learned that I don't get to go back in time and reframe what had occurred with my good intentions. I don't get to dismiss the pain that my words and actions have caused you. I can only make amends, and learn, and move forward.

I've destroyed my own life. And I've hurt you so badly in the process.

If I could change the course of time, I would've realised how futile my secrecy was. How I was wrong on every level. But there had been no way of me to comprehend the extent of it — all the ways in which I'd damaged your opinion of me forever.

If I'd been smarter, I would've written this long ago.

I can readily picture what your reaction to this would be. You'd roll your eyes. You'd rightly guess that I'm only gratifying myself with these words, only absolving myself of guilt. You'd know intuitively that you don't owe me anything at all – not your time, and certainly not your attention. Both of which you'd refuse to spend by even reading this.

And you'd be right.

You don't owe me anything. Not after everything.

I took you for granted. I let you down. And I lied to you in so many ways. I'd choked myself with all of my secrets. There were so many times when I'd deflected your concern, dismissing your attempts to bridge the gap between us. When you'd offered me your hand, I shouldn't have pulled back. I should've held on tightly, like the saving grace that it was.

Instead, all I can say is this: If there was a way to turn back around, I wouldn't have treated you as the enemy. Not when all the while, the real enemy hadn't been you.

It gets harder and harder to picture you. To remember what you look like. I catch myself turning to find your smile. I see glimpses of what feels like remembering in every stranger's face, because you're part of who I am.

Closure is a lot for me to expect. And it's certainly not something I'm owed. I respect that. But if closure isn't possible for me, I'd like for it to be possible for you. I like to imagine you as you are now – thriving, making friends at your arts college, living in the trendy end of a city big enough to contain your ambition. Making beautiful things with beautiful people. Colouring the world with all the vibrant shades of your lustre.

I can't catch up to you. I'm stuck here in the past. So this is how I'll have to close this chapter of ours.

This will have to do.

I worked hard to focus on the letter in front of me, but it was impossible. There she was again. Standing across the room, staring at me. Her left eyebrow twitching like a nervous worm.