Sorry

Sorry that absence has become my most fluent language, even in my presence. I do not vanish like a magician with flair; I seep out of rooms the way evening light fades, so slowly it tricks everyone into thinking the colours were always this dull. My departures are not dramatic exits but long dissolves, a body turning transparent one careless glance at a time, until even I struggle to recall the sharpness of my own outline.

Sorry for the unreturned calls stacked like unpaid invoices in a quiet drawer. Each ring unanswered feels harmless in the moment, yet they gather mass together, a hidden constellation of silences that tug at unsuspecting hearts. There is a cruelty in letting a phone shiver itself still, in leaving a friend to weigh every possible catastrophe against the plain truth that I was simply too tangled inside to say hello.

Sorry that welcoming me back is never as simple as opening a door. I arrive carrying a weather system that no one forecast, clouds pressed into the seams of my jacket, rain already dripping from sentences I have not spoken. I stand dripping on clean floors, rehearsing apologies that never sound as sincere as the mess looks, and I watch relief mix with caution in the eyes across from me. Forgiveness offered, but never light enough to make the room bright again.

Sorry for the nights social media turned me into a faint green dot, suggesting I was alive and reachable, while in reality I scrolled like a ghost sifting through other people’s warmth. I left comments half‑typed, deleted before they could reveal how little voice I trusted myself to have. The timeline kept moving, oblivious to a cursor blinking in the dark, mourning sentences that could not bear their own weight.

Sorry that my explanations feel rehearsed yet never refined. I talk of exhaustion, of needing quiet, of brains wired strangely since childhood. The words unpack neatly, but the real story resists translation: a gravity that tilts every moment toward retreat, a constant arithmetic of impact where showing up seems costlier than vanishing. I fear sounding dramatic, yet the mundanity of collapse is exactly what makes it so hard to see.

Sorry for the times I returned as if nothing had happened, expecting the conversation to resume at the comma where I paused it months ago. I tell myself continuity is kindness, but really it is cowardice, hoping no one will press on the jagged seam of time that split us apart. I dread the inventory of losses my absence imposed, yet I dread even more the silence that swallows us when we pretend there was none.

Sorry, finally, for apologising in words more often than in presence. Language can dress regret in elegant attire, but it cannot pour tea, cannot sit quietly through the awkward minute when no topic feels safe. I know that healing is less a sentence than a series of small, shabby acts: showing up early, staying long after comfort leaves, letting others see the tremor rather than the tailored excuse. I cannot promise brilliance or consistency, only the stubborn pulse that keeps trying to step back into the room, rain‑soaked, wary, but unwilling to disappear without a fight.