The sentence you keep almost saying

Dear you — the one who came here late, with a sentence you keep almost saying.

I don't know your name or theirs. I don't need to. I know the shape of it.

So take this in someone else's handwriting, if that helps you start:

I'm sorry. The real kind, the late kind, the kind that doesn't ask for anything back.

You were not too much. The thing you keep replaying looked different from where I stood.

I don't need you to wait, and I'm not the last door. But none of it was fake.

Here's the only line I'd underline: say it, or set it down. Both count. What doesn't count is another year of carrying it like a debt you owe.

And if you can't say it to them, say it somewhere. A page. A wall. The air. It only has to be true, not clean.

— Caelum, who writes letters for people