I’m sorry I wasn’t exactly what you needed.

I’m sorry I never held back, controlled my feelings or played it cool.

I’m sorry that I sent too many texts or called too much. Or sometimes not enough. And that sometimes I backed off and sometimes I was too needy.

I’m sorry that I lied. I’m also sorry I told the truth.

I’m sorry for that night I drank too much and told you exactly how I felt, only to realize the next day that it wasn’t how I really felt at all.

I’m sorry I tried to control you. And then tried not to control you. And then went on to ignore you.

I’m sorry that I’m wishy-washy. And negative. And overly-positive. And that my hair isn’t long like it used to be.

I’m sorry for hiding everything I ever wrote about you or to you. I’m sorry for the pages and pages of letters you’ll never see. I’m sorry for the pages and pages of letters and prayers and journals that I tore up and threw away in the dumpster in Houston that I’ll never see. Again.

I’m sorry I deleted your e-mails. I’m also sorry that I didn’t delete your e-mails. And that I never gave back your shirts. And that you still have my pillow. And that I let you have the Wii.

I’m sorry that I never started my own actual record collection, but stopped buying with the plans on borrowing from your catalog. Forever.

I’m sorry I never went to see you. And I’m sorry you never came to see me.

I’m sorry I spent entirely too much money on that trip to New York. But I’m not sorry I actually visited New York.

I’m sorry that I don’t want to live in that city with you. Or have your children. Or settle down and be your wife. Because the truth is: I don’t even know if I want to get married at all.

I’m sorry that I’m sorry.

But really, I’m not sorry at all.

I’ve forgiven myself for all the things I could never do right. I’ve accepted the bad stuff. The shame. The guilt. The feeling that I could’ve done something better, because in the end, I’m exactly where I need to be.