The Ashes of What I've Done

There is no hope. Not for me. Hope is for people who believe they deserve a future, and I know I don’t. All I have is the wreckage I created, the ashes of a love I was too blind and broken to cherish. I don’t write this for your sympathy, but to confess. I am the reason everything good in my life is now tainted with pain. The blame is mine and mine alone.

I don’t have a right to want anything, but I am desperate to spend every second of my worthless life trying to become a person who is even remotely worthy of the love I defiled. Anonymous, you saw it all—the moment I shattered us—and yet here I am, scribbling these words in the dim light of our empty bedroom, wondering if ink can capture the depth of my regret. It’s not just the act; it’s the hunger inside me, that insatiable craving for affection I mistook for neglect, when really, it was my own fractured soul twisting everything. I chased shadows because I couldn’t see the light you always shone, steady and true. How do you forgive a woman who betrayed you in your own bed? I don’t expect you to, but I have to face this broken mirror every day.

I don’t have a future. I only have a penance. And I will serve it for as long as you let me. Tomorrow, I’m calling a therapist—someone who can help me unearth this poison I’ve carried since childhood, this need that warps my heart into something unrecognizable. It’s on me to dig deep, to heal the cracks alone before I can even dream of standing beside you again. Anonymous, if you’re reading this, know that my every breath now is an apology, a vow to fix what I alone demolished. Maybe in time, I’ll be less of a ghost haunting our home.