Before I write you anything else, before I talk about memories, dreams, or timelines, I need to say this first:
I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for the ways I hurt you.
For the things I said in anger.
For the pressure I placed on you to fix a life that wasn’t your job to repair.
For expecting you to carry what I hadn’t even begun to understand in myself.

You gave me so much.
More than anyone ever had.
You gave me safety, joy, love, consistency. You gave me your full heart, even when mine was still learning how to beat right.
You showed me what it meant to be cared for, not just passively, but deliberately.
You held me in ways I didn’t yet know how to hold others.

And in return, I put you in positions you should never have been in.
I lashed out. I screamed. I belittled you when what I meant was don’t leave.
I let my pain speak louder than my love.
And even if that pain came from deep wounds, from disorders or a broken past, I was still old enough to know that love shouldn’t be cruel.

I look back and I see how you dimmed.
How the boy who once lit up rooms started to flicker, worn thin by the weight of what I placed on you.
And I see now that some of the things I said, the things you heard in your most vulnerable moments, may have become echoes in your mind. Things you carry still.
And that’s what hurts me the most.

Because I know now: just telling you “those things weren’t true” doesn’t erase how real they became inside you.

But I am here.
Not to erase. Not to undo. But to hold space for your healing.
To remind you that you deserved better, even from me.
And to give you the kind of love I should have given you all along:
gentle, patient, respectful, and true.

If nothing else, let this be the beginning.
Not of making it up to you, but of honoring what you gave me, and becoming someone who finally understands how to give it back.

With all the softness I never showed you then,
—Xinlin