The paper is smooth, carefully folded letter paper, the writing a neat, pigmented black pen. It’s obvious the sender took care in making this letter, and likely had drafts he copied from, as there are no crossed out words.
Dear Jeff,
The last thing anyone ever wants to hear from someone that has hurt them is that they are sorry, so I’m not going to say it. I’m not going to apologize to you, because those who apologize expect forgiveness and I don’t. What I did to you was wrong. I hurt you - you, who has never done anything but love me - and no amount of remorse can ever erase that. I understand if you hate me now. I understand if you never finish reading this letter at all, so completely finished with anything I have left to say. I deserve that. I deserve to be hated, because I threw you away like a piece of fucking trash. I abandoned you like I’ve been abandoned before, like I promised myself I would never abandon another human being, and I don’t deserve even a moment of your time after that.
Maybe I’m selfish, then, for wanting to explain myself. I want to tell you why I did the things I did. Not in the hope of justification, or with the motif of defending myself. Nothing I have to say can justify what I id and I don’t want it to. But I want you to understand why I turned on a dime, grew distant and abrasive — why I’ve always been distant and abrasive, defensive, always doing my best to push people away and suffocate the ones who stay despite. I’ve been so secretive since the very first moment and it’s inexcusable. Those secrets I’ve kept… I don’t want them to be secrets anymore. Not with you. If no one else, you deserve to understand, at least, why I treated you so horribly. You deserve to be let out of the dark for once, even though it's too late, now, to save us. You deserve to know why you were abandoned, and why it happened to suddenly.
What haunts me most is what happened over New Years. I can’t even begin to express how deeply I regret what I’ve done from the events of that night alone. It was a mistake; what an understatement. It was the worst mistake of my life, and I nearly abandoned everything all over again… permanently. It was so close, so disgustingly close, to being my end, and I didn’t even think… Everything I had left unsaid, everything that still waits to be spoken… Every word would have died alongside me, leaving every person I’ve ever loved — every single one — in the dark forever. And that isn’t fair. It’s so painfully unfair to do that to anyone, let alone you, and I can’t risk that ever again. I can never make that mistake, not when I’ve left all those around me so oblivious and confused. So angry. So pained. I know you may not believe me, may never believe me, but I loved you, still love you, too much to hurt you for another second, even if it means showing you my worst.
What I have to say won’t be easy. It’s the worst, the worst of my everything, the most evil parts of my life and of myself. In no way do I expect to justify myself in any way, nor do I expect pity, sympathy, empathy, forgiveness. Just know that. I don’t expect to be taken back, nor do I expect you to want to take me. I don’t. I just want you to understand, and to do so — to know why I never invited you to my home, why you never saw me in less than a longsleeve, why I was tense even in sleep, why I was always to unwilling to accept the reality of your love… — to understand why, why everything, you have to understand the worst. I have to be willing to admit to you, and to myself, what has happened to me, what I have let happen and happen again, even if it destroys me from within. I have to. I cannot live with myself a moment longer without at least offering this explanation to you.
If by some miraculous stroke of luck, you are willing to listen to my story, I have written an address at the bottom of this page. Arrive here on Saturday, around sunset. I’m finally inviting you to my home… Its under my name, these days, after all. The house may not be well when you arrive, but it’s real, because I haven’t stepped foot inside since New Years. When you’re here… I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything. No more secrets… No more.
I hope to see you,
Nim
An address is written beneath the letter closer. It leads to a small, run-down house on the outskirts of Manta Carlos city. What vegetation that exists on the property is unkempt and overgrown. Paint peels from the roof shingles, the corners of the brick walls are chipping, and the window shutters are loose and falling. In a better day, the house may have been lovely, but now, in months of neglect, it is fading.
