To my Dearest,

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‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ I'm sorry for not stitching up your wounds, I was busy bleeding too.

You were there, open and aching, and I wanted to be the healer, the one to hold you, but my hands were trembling, stained in red. My own cuts hidden beneath the smile I wore.

I saw you, reaching out, your eyes seeking mine, and I turned away, not because I didn't care. But because I was breaking, too.

We were both falling, in different ways. Our pieces scattered across the same floor, but I couldn't gather yours when my own were slipping through my fingers.

Forgive me, for not being the shelter you needed, for not sewing the fabric of your heart back together. I was lost in my own storm, my voice drowned out by the rain that never seemed to stop.

I wanted to be strong for you, but I was crumbling beneath the weight of my own pain. And all I could do was watch as we drifted, two ships lost in the same dark sea, each too broken to save the other.

I'm sorry I wasn't the comfort, the solace... I'm sorry I let you down when you needed me most. I was busy holding myself together with trembling hands, busy hiding my tears, busy pretending I wasn't shattering.

If only I could have reached you, could have sewn your wounds shut... but I was unable to do anything but press against my own scars, hoping they'd heal before I lost myself completely.

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Sincerely,
.....

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|short story|
myinkspeaks

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