An Apology

I owe you one. I have been drafting this letter since 2024–25, rewriting
every half-finished, half-honest version before this one. The truth — and
I say this with my whole chest — is that I treated you badly. I was
self-absorbed, short-tempered, and thin-skinned. You deserved better — so
much better — than what I gave. What I gave was second-rate.

For 18–19 months I let my self-importance run the show. From May–June of
last year especially, I was flat-out unbearable. And I knew it — knew it
the whole time — and did nothing. My so-called reasons — my bargain-bin
excuses — my last-minute reversals — all of it was noise. I have done the
math, and the fault splits 100–0 against me, by my own napkin-math, which
I checked 2–3 times. It held up; I am that clear-cut a villain here.

I keep replaying that night — the one I pretend not to remember — and I
flinch. My middle-of-the-night texts, my warmed-over excuses. You asked
for so little — basic decency — and I treated it like an imposition. On a
scale of 1–10, my conduct was a no-show. Across our 4–5 years of
friendship, I was a part-time friend at best.

And here is the thing — the thing I keep circling — I would understand if
you never forgave me. My ham-fisted, tone-deaf attempts at amends — each
more cringe-worthy than the last — deserve their own apology — a second
letter, frankly, covering roughly March–April alone. That stretch was
rock-bottom. I was operating at maybe 5–10 percent of the person you
needed. A bare-minimum presence.

I want to change — truly change — not perform it. No more half-measures.
No more apologies that are really excuses — you know the kind — dressed
up in nicer fonts. No more slow-rolled, watered-down honesty. Just the
truth — all of it, the full 0–100, no sugar-coating, even the parts from
2019–2020 that I have been white-knuckling around.

Because you deserve that — you always did — and I am done pretending
otherwise. Done with the half-truths and non-answers. I am done with the
version of me that shows up late — leaves early — keeps score — forgets
birthdays — and calls it friendship.

If I can be even 1–2 percent better each week, I will take it as a
long-term project. Give me 6–12 months of consistent, grown-up behavior
and judge me then — not by my words — but by the record. By my
follow-through — by my real-life actions — by my hard-won patience —
judge all of it. Score me weekly, 0–10. I will hold myself to that
standard full-time. Not for some trial window of 30–60 days, not as some
short-lived stunt, but for 2026–27 and beyond, however long this
slow-motion repair takes.

I am sorry — more than I can say.

Yours, in earnest.