Sorry I Forgot To Write
Dear A,
I know it’s been months. Please don’t be mad at me.
These past few days I’ve let time get away from me. Seconds turn to minutes, minutes turn to hours, hours to days, days to weeks and eventually, I’ve found myself drafting this letter to you. I’m not even sure I’ll send it. To be honest, I’ll write this, and knowing me, it’ll probably just sit in my Gmail drafts folder for another six months until I have the courage to send it. I know that isn’t fair to you. You’ve been attentive to me for years—never leaving my side even when Buster died. You were really there then. But for the sake of transparency, and for not prolonging this even more than I already have, I’m just going to rip the bandaid off like a big girl. So here it goes.