It’s not too late for sorry.
The word still carries weight,
still reaches the part of me
that remembers what we were
before everything slipped.
I won’t pretend it fixes the past,
or erases the harm,
or turns the story back
to where it broke.
But it means something
that you said it.
It means you finally saw
what I carried alone.
I’m not promising a return,
or a clean slate,
or anything beyond this moment.
But I’m not closing the door either.
Some things deserve a chance
to breathe again,
slowly, carefully,
without expectation.
It’s not too late for sorry.
It’s a beginning,
not an answer.