The Apology I Never Got And Why I Stopped Waiting for It

I waited for it.

The apology.

The message. The phone call. The teary confession that maybe—just maybe—they finally understood how deeply they hurt me.

But it never came.

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At first, I told myself it was just a matter of time.

Maybe they needed space.

Maybe they felt guilty.

Maybe they were crafting the perfect words.

I imagined every version of it.

The late-night text.

The nervous call.

The awkward reunion that somehow made things make sense.

I rehearsed my reaction in my head more times than I could count.

How I’d look calm and composed.

How I’d say, “Thank you, that means a lot.”

How closure would finally arrive like a bow on a box of pain.

But here’s the truth:

Some people never apologize.

Not because they didn’t hurt you.

But because they don’t think they did.

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That realization?

It broke me.

I had spent so long holding my breath, waiting.

Holding my pain like a receipt—proof of what they owed me.

If I just waited long enough, stayed quiet long enough, maybe they’d come around.

Maybe they’d see me. Acknowledge what they did. Feel even an ounce of the hurt I carried.

But healing doesn’t work like that.

And time doesn’t guarantee justice.

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The silence was louder than any words they could’ve said.

It screamed, You don’t matter enough.

It whispered, Your pain isn’t valid.

And still, I clung to the hope of hearing, “I’m sorry.”

Because it wasn’t just about the apology.

It was about acknowledgment.

It was about being seen.

It was about hearing someone say, You didn’t deserve what happened.

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I wasted months—maybe years—waiting.

Waiting for someone who had already moved on.

They weren’t losing sleep over what happened.

They weren’t dissecting every moment, replaying every conversation.

They weren’t wondering if they were the villain.

I was the only one still bleeding.

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And then one day, something shifted.

It wasn’t dramatic.

No lightning bolt, no deep epiphany.

Just a quiet moment on a Tuesday afternoon, staring out the window with tired eyes.

I thought, What if they never say it?

And my heart whispered back:

“Then you’ll still be okay.”

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I realized I had given them too much power.

Let them rent space in my mind.

Let their absence dictate my healing.

So I stopped waiting.

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I wrote the apology myself—not to send, but to feel.

I wrote it as if they finally understood.

I gave myself every word I needed to hear.

“I’m sorry for the way I treated you.

You didn’t deserve the silence.

You didn’t deserve the blame.

You were always enough.”

And I cried reading it.

Not because it came from them—but because I had finally given it to myself.

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Let me tell you something hard:

You might never get the apology.

You might never hear the words.

You might never get closure from the person who broke you.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t heal.

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Closure isn’t a door they have to close for you.

It’s one you get to walk through, alone, when you’re ready.

You are allowed to move on without permission.

You are allowed to heal without acknowledgment.

You are allowed to forgive without hearing “I’m sorry.”

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I used to think that healing required justice.

That I couldn’t be whole until they looked me in the eye and said, “I was wrong.”

But now I know: healing is self-built.

Brick by brick.

Tear by tear.

Choice by choice.

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There is freedom in releasing someone from the apology they’ll never give.

There is peace in not needing their validation anymore.

There is strength in standing tall with a wound that never got bandaged properly—but healed anyway.

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They may never say it.

But you?

You still get to be free.