I thought I was angry at you, for leaving, for the silence, for all the things you never said. But maybe, if I’m honest, I’m angry at myself. For the words I should have spoken. For the moments I didn’t understand. For the times I held on too tightly, and the times I let you slip away. And maybe you’re angry too not because you stopped caring, but because caring became painful. Four years don’t disappear just because two people break. Sometimes love stays in the places anger lives. Maybe that’s why we keep finding our way back to the same door. Not because everything is fixed. But because somewhere inside us, neither one of us has completely stopped hoping. And if I could say just one thing, without fear, without asking anything from you I’d say: I’m not angry at you anymore. I’m angry at myself for not knowing how to love you the way you needed when I had the chance.