You never did want the apology. You wanted the version of me that didn’t need one. I know that now, because I wrote you eleven drafts between Villingili and the harbour and every single one of them was about me. Could you believe I noticed? That I could feel the moment you stopped reading my messages as messages and started reading them as evidence? There was no we in any of them. Just me, my thesaurus, and a frantic attempt to sound like someone worth keeping on an island this small.
Exhibit A. The photo I cropped you out of, then felt bad, then uncropped.
Click. It’s yours anyway.
Page02 / The evidence I kept instead of the person
Five photographs. None of them are of you. All of them are about you. Hover if you want the caption. Don’t if you’d rather keep your version.
EX.01The joali you sat in twice. I still turn it toward the road.EX.02A lane in Maafannu we never walked down together. I imagine it went fine.EX.03The sky over Rasfannu the day you said "we should talk" and then didn't.EX.04Proof that I left the house. You asked. Here: the harbour, low tide.EX.05The last photo before my camera roll became a diary.
Subject: re: re: re: nothing · Subject: I saw your bike outside · Subject: (no subject) · Subject: this isn't about you · Subject: it is about you · Subject: draft 11 · Subject: re: re: re: nothing · Subject: I saw your bike outside · Subject: (no subject) · Subject: this isn't about you · Subject: it is about you · Subject: draft 11 ·
I keep writing this like a formal complaint.
As if there is a ministry for it.
As if someone behind a counter in Malé will stamp it
and you'll collect your copy on Sunday.
There isn't. There's just me,
re-reading my own sentences
to check whether they sound like someone
you would have stayed on this island for.
They don't. That's fine.
I've started signing them anyway.
DRAFT 01Hey, hope you're well. Hey. I know you're well. This island is too small for not knowing.
DRAFT 04No hard feelings. All the feelings are hard. I just stopped naming them.
DRAFT 07I'm not mad. I am furious in a way that is mostly about myself.
DRAFT 09Anyway, take care. Anyway, I took care. Of the plant. The one you left on the balcony. It has survived two monsoons. It's thriving, actually, which is annoying.
DRAFT 11Deleted before it could become draft 12. Progress.
Page04 / Write yours. It goes nowhere. That is the entire point.
Nothing you type here leaves this browser. No server. No inbox. No “seen at 2:14am” with the rain going on the roof. The letter gets read once, by you, and then it gets shredded on screen with the dignity it deserves. You may feel lighter. You may feel nothing. Both count.
Shredded. Zero recipients. One witness.
Letters shredded on this device this session: 0
Preview · unsent
Your letter shows up here as you type. Like a mirror, but with less judgement.