yolkka

I don't care about your apology.

And I don't think you care about mine.

Maybe that's what makes it worse.

There is no forgiveness here.
No hatred, either.
Nothing dramatic enough to make this feel meaningful.

Just two people who stopped caring about each other, carrying something neither of us wants to name.

You hurt me.
I hurt you.

And somewhere between those two things, whatever we were became irrelevant.

Still, the weight remains.

Not because I miss you.
Not because I want you back.
Not because I regret everything.

It remains because knowing what you did — and knowing what I did — is something neither of us can un-know.

You could say you're sorry.
I could say I'm sorry.

We could exchange the words until they lose whatever meaning they had left.

And then we'd walk away.

You wouldn't think about me.
I wouldn't think about you.

But somewhere beneath the indifference, there would still be that quiet weight.

Not love.
Not guilt.

Just the knowledge that we existed in each other's lives long enough to leave something behind.

And neither of us cared enough to stay.
Yet neither of us left completely untouched.

Stop thinking about it.

You already know what happened. You already know what it meant. Going over it again won't change anything.

Some things don't need another answer.

Let it stay where it happened. Let it become something you no longer need to understand.

Stop searching for meaning in something that already ended.