I saw the ring in the story a friend reposted

I saw the ring in the story a friend reposted.

Your hand. Their hand. The light catching the stone

in that way people use to announce joy.

I unfollowed you, which somehow made it worse—

the act of turning away a small confession

that I was turning away.

For five years I've rehearsed what I would say.

The apology. The specific thing I did,

designed to land exactly where it would hurt.

I was careful about that.

I've typed it out a thousand times in my head,

watched the words rearrange themselves

into something that looked like remorse,

something that looked like I'd become someone

who could feel sorry.

But here's what I know about myself:

An apology isn't for you.

It's for me. It's another taking.

It's me asking you to carry my guilt

on top of everything else I already took.

You're smiling in that photo in a way

I've never seen. Not the smile you gave

when we were close, when you were hoping

I'd be better. This smile doesn't need me.

Doesn't need my redemption, my rewrite,

my performance of change.

The kindest thing I can do

is stay silent.

Let you have this

without my guilt

demanding a witness.