Things You’ll Never Know I Forgave You For

Things You’ll Never Know I Forgave You ForGenre: Poets / Personal EssayChallenge Fit: Things You Can’t Say Out Loud

Dear You,

There are things I have forgiven you for that you’ll never know. Not because I couldn’t say them. Not because I didn’t want to. But because speaking them aloud might unravel the fragile quiet we’ve both come to accept as peace. Some things, it turns out, are easier buried under soft silences than spoken into confrontation.

I forgave you for the time you left me waiting in the rain, phone buzzing with apologies that rang hollow. You never noticed how soaked I was when I showed up anyway, shoes squishing with every step, laughter forced between chattering teeth. You called it a mix-up. I called it a memory I wish I could forget.

I forgave you for forgetting my birthday. Twice. The first time, I told myself you were busy, that life was chaotic. The second time, I told myself it didn’t matter, that I didn’t need a cake or a call. But a part of me still waited — quietly, like a child in the window, hoping.

I forgave you for not showing up when I was scared. When the hospital smelled like bleach and loneliness, and the nurse called my name twice before I stood. I told you afterward, said it was no big deal, and you nodded. You didn’t see the way I flinched.

I forgave you for every time you belittled what I loved. My poetry. My softness. My belief in magic. You said I was naive, that the world wasn’t built for dreamers. And I started believing you. Started trading stardust for silence, glitter for guilt.

I forgave you for the silences that weren’t serene. The ones that cut, stretched long between texts, between glances, between days where you disappeared without explanation. When you returned, you brought your smile like a gift, and I unwrapped it hungrily.

I forgave you for using love like currency — offered only when you felt I had earned it. I danced for it. Shrunk for it. Became versions of myself I didn’t recognize. You made me feel that love was conditional, fleeting, something I could lose if I wasn’t careful.

I forgave you for the lies — the small ones first. “I’m just tired.” “I didn’t see your message.” Then the bigger ones. “She’s just a friend.” “I never meant to hurt you.” You said the words so smoothly I started questioning my own instincts. That was the deepest wound: losing trust in myself.

I forgave you for the night I cried myself to sleep next to you. And you didn’t ask why. Just turned away. The shape of your back was colder than the room.

I forgave you for not reading the letter I wrote — the one I folded carefully and placed in your jacket pocket. The ink smeared from tears, the words raw and trembling. You never mentioned it. Maybe you never found it. Maybe you did, and chose silence.

I forgave you for calling me “too much.” Too sensitive. Too dramatic. Too needy. I spent so long trying to become smaller — more manageable. But I was never meant to be minimized. I know that now.

I forgave you for all the things I’ll never say out loud. For the hundreds of small bruises on my spirit that no one saw. For the way you taught me that survival sometimes looks like smiling through your own undoing.

I’ve stitched myself back together in the years since. Not neatly. Not perfectly. But enough.

I carry forgiveness like a stone polished smooth in my pocket — not because you asked for it, not because you deserve it, but because I refuse to carry your weight any longer.

If you ever wonder why I stopped writing, or calling, or showing up with wide-eyed hope — know it wasn’t because I hated you. It was because I finally loved myself more.

You never had to earn my forgiveness. But you also never heard it.

Maybe someday you’ll hear it in the space between our memories. In the quiet. In the things we never said.

But if not — that’s okay, too.

With more grace than you gave me,—Me