Actual

I've apologized before.

I've gotten good at the shape of the words,

the angle of my face,

the right amount of regret

to sound convincing.

I've been sorry I got caught.

I've been sorry I hurt you.

I've been sorry that I wasn't sorry sooner.

But I've never been sorry like this.

Sitting across from you in a coffee shop,

opening my mouth,

and feeling the actual weight

of the thing I did,

not the weight of getting caught,

but the weight of knowing

that I did it anyway,

that I chose it,

that I hurt you

and then lied about it,

and then apologized for the lie

without apologizing for the hurt.

My coffee is getting cold.

I'm not drinking it.

I'm just looking at it

and trying to find the words

that don't sound like

all the other times.

The steam disappears.

The surface grows still.

I start talking.

It comes out wrong—too honest,

too messy,

too much like someone who's

actually breaking,

actually feeling the consequence,

actually understanding

what I've done.

You're not saying anything.

You're just listening.

And I realize that all the other apologies

were for me,

were about making myself feel better,

were about proving I was the kind of person

who said sorry.

This one is different.

This one is actually an apology.

This one is me,

sitting across from you,

in a coffee shop,

with nothing to show for it

but the truth

and the cold coffee

and the knowledge that

you might not forgive me,

and that's what I deserve.