I have filled countless notebooks, pages stained with ink and regret, each line a declaration, I am sorry, it’s my fault, words bleeding into my heart, each apology, a weight, as if every bond I touch shatters like glass, and I am the storm that sweeps through, vanishing whispers in the silence. I think of all the faces, friends turned into shadows, Love turned into silence , moments stolen by my hand, the laughter now echoes of what was, and I retreat, a ghost in this life, fearing they will forget my name, while I clutch this guilt, like a soft chain around my soul. I wrote sorry for friendships lost, For love that got broken , for the ties that fray with every hesitation, for the wounds I never meant to inflict, I never desired to become this, but in the mirror, I see the stranger— the one who loses, the one who loves with trembling hands. If you’ve felt the sting of my carelessness, know it was never my intention to become a shadow, swept away by the winds of my own making. I apologize for every broken thing, each heart that aches in quiet despair, I’m sorry for the hurt I never saw, for the nights you sat alone, wondering what went wrong. I don’t want to be this way, yet here I am, with pages filled with sorrow, a soft plea for understanding, hoping one day, the inked words might fade— and in the silence, we can start to mend what has been broken.