I could tell you a story about growing up hungry for attention and how the internet fed it until I mistook applause for dinner. I could tell you a story about men who made “exposure” a salary and how I learned to make a living off other people’s skin. I could tell you a story about how I thought “independent” meant “never ask for help” and about a woman who was offering help I thought I had to spit in to prove I wasn’t weak. None of that excuses the thing I did to you in a hallway because I liked the sound of my own power in a phone. I am sorry. Not because my brand died. Because I did a cruel thing to a person who had earned better.
You don’t have to reply. If I ever talk about this publicly, I will not use your name. You gave me a boundary. I’m learning to have one with myself.
—H
I read it twice. I did not forgive her across the counter like a soap opera priest. I did not throw the letter away. I slid it into the “Proof” file under a tab I labeled Apologies That Don’t Ask for Work Back. They are rare. They deserve their own drawer.
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