The Apology I Practiced in My Head

I practiced it in the mirror,

as if glass could absorb guilt

and spit back forgiveness.

Every word weighed like a stone,

every silence heavier than the last.

“I’m sorry,”

I said to the toothbrush holder,

to the moth on the window,

to the quiet hum of a house

that still remembers your laughter

echoing in the walls.

You never got to hear it.

The apology.

The way I meant to say it

with trembling breath and open palms—

not perfect, but honest.

Not beautiful,

but broken enough to be real.

I rehearsed it in traffic,

in the rain,

in the foggy mirror after a shower,

where steam blurred the edges of me

like time did with you.

I imagined your face

as I’d say it.

That flicker in your eyes—

half surprise, half ache.

Would you have forgiven me

like you used to with a sigh

and a shrug

and a quiet, “It’s okay”?

But it wasn’t.

And it still isn’t.

Because you left

with the silence between us

stretched like unspoken thread,

pulling taut

and snapping

the moment I turned my back.

Now, I speak to shadows.

To the dent in the pillow

that still holds your shape.

To the coffee mug you left

with a chip at the rim—

the one I still use,

as if sipping from it

can undo

what I didn’t say.

I see you sometimes

in strangers on the train,

in a song that knows our story

without knowing our names.

And I whisper the words again,

just in case

your ghost is listening.

I’m sorry.

I was afraid of saying it wrong.

But silence

was the loudest mistake I ever made.