She Believed Me

I said I'm sorry

and I didn't add an excuse.

I didn't say the traffic was bad.

I didn't say I forgot.

I didn't say something came up.

I said: I'm sorry.

I know I keep doing this to you.

And something in her face changed.

It was the moment she realized

I wasn't going to talk my way out of it,

wasn't going to blame circumstance,

wasn't going to make it about

something other than

the simple fact

that I chose

not to show up.

She cried a little.

I cried a little.

We sat on her couch

and the apology was real

in a way nothing I'd ever said was real,

in a way that felt like

tearing open,

like something breaking

that had been solid

for so long

I'd forgotten it could break.

I meant it.

I really meant it.

Not the apology itself—

I've apologized before,

I'll apologize again,

I'll probably cancel again,

I'll probably lie about why,

I'll probably do this

all over again.

But in that moment,

I meant

that I knew I was doing it,

that I wasn't innocent,

that the excuse

wasn't the point.

The point was

that I kept hurting her

and calling it circumstance,

and she believed me

until suddenly

she didn't.

She said okay.

She didn't say it was fine.

She didn't say I was forgiven.

She just said okay,

and it cracked something open

that I'm not sure

can ever be sealed back up.

I think about that moment

more than I think about

the times I showed up.

More than I think about

the times I was good.

Because this was the first time

I wasn't good,

and she believed me anyway.

That's the part

I can't get over.