The Apology Came, But the Truth Never Did

I’ve let go of the past — or at least, I’ve done my best to. I’ve chosen peace over bitterness, growth over grudges. But some memories still find their way back. They don’t knock; they just show up — in quiet moments, late at night, or in the middle of a perfectly normal day.

And when they do, I still wonder: What did I do to deserve what was done to me?

I’ve replayed events in my mind more times than I can count, searching for clues, turning over every detail like puzzle pieces that just never quite fit. I ask myself, again and again: Did I trigger it? Was there something I said, something I missed, something I didn’t see coming?

I’ve received one apology. Just one. But he never explained why it all turned out the way it did. He never gave me the truth.

Was someone else whispering behind the scenes, manipulating things? Was I caught in someone else's game? Or was I just guilty by association — collateral damage in a story that was never really mine?

And then there’s the question that lingers beneath all the others: Was it because I was good at what I did? Did that make me a threat? Did my competence, my presence, or my light unsettle someone who couldn’t handle it — who felt the need to dim it?

If that’s all it was… if my strength or success made someone uncomfortable… then why the cruelty? Why the betrayal?

I may never get the answers. And maybe that’s part of what I have to let go of too — the need for closure that may never come.

But I still hold on to this: I know who I am. I know what I gave. And I know what I didn’t deserve.

The same person sent another message recently, reminding me of a small souvenir I once gave him — something he’s apparently been using ever since.

Why reach out now? Why mention that gift? Is he still carrying guilt? Is he trying to ease it in fragments, hoping I’ll fill in the rest?

I don’t need apologies wrapped in nostalgia, or vague messages meant to soothe a guilty conscience. What I needed back then — and what I still quietly long for — was honesty. Truth. Accountability.

But even without it, I’ve learned how to keep going. My healing no longer depends on someone else’s explanation.

Some stories stay unfinished — not because we didn’t deserve the ending, but because the other person wasn’t brave enough to write it.

And that’s okay. I’ll write the rest of mine on my own — with clarity, with courage, and with peace.