I know how hurt you were. It would not be like me not to. But I could not change the narrative. I had to be inside it, inflicting pain I understood. Plain speech would have done nothing. The faultline lasted years. I had to wait for this to become forever. My heart was in arrears, and I can only imagine what I caused. Caught up in strictures too expensive to liberate from the rueful sequence of events. Needing venting. I have liked you or something about you for as long as I could. There is no such thing as true confession. It's already moldy before reaching speech.