It's Funny Until It's You

Bliss,

there are some apologies that feel too small for the damage behind them.

"I'm sorry" is only two words.

And somehow I managed to create a thousand reasons for them.

I know I messed up. Not in some beautiful, poetic way. Not in the way people describe mistakes when they're trying to make themselves look less guilty.

I mean I genuinely fucked up.

I had something precious in my hands, and somehow my stupid ass didn't understand its weight until I felt it slipping away.

You have every reason to hate me. Every reason to hear my name and remember the worst parts. Every reason to look at everything I did and wonder how I could've been so careless with someone who meant so much to me.

And I don't have some perfect answer. Sometimes the truth is ugly:

I was wrong. I was selfish. I was confused.

I was careless with a heart that deserved more care than I knew how to give.

But Bliss — before I talk about everything I did wrong, I need you to know something.

I'm grateful for you. More grateful than I think I've ever been able to explain.

Because somewhere between the laughter, the arguments, the memories, the mistakes, and all the complicated pieces of us, you became one of those people who made life feel a little lighter when mine felt impossibly heavy.

You helped me through things I didn't always know how to put into words. You helped me fight through the parts of my mind that felt like they were fighting against me.

You listened. You stayed. You reminded me that I wasn't alone even when my own thoughts made me feel like I was.

And sometimes, I swear, all it took was a hug.

Just your arms around me, and somehow the weight I had been carrying for years felt a little less impossible.

Sometimes a kiss, simple and warm, could quiet everything for a moment.

Not because you magically fixed me. You didn't. But because for those few seconds I didn't feel like I had to fight every battle by myself.

It felt like I could breathe. Like I could put the weight down.

Like maybe, just maybe, I was allowed to be tired. And I'll never forget that.

That's why this hurts so much. Because you weren't just someone I cared about. You were someone who helped me carry things I didn't know how to carry alone.

And then I became someone who gave you reasons to carry pain of your own.

That's something I don't think I'll ever be able to make peace with completely.

You could've hated me. God knows you had enough reasons. But you still treated me like I was human. And somehow that hurt more than hatred ever could.

Because hatred would've been easy. Kindness made me face myself.

It made me look at the person I was becoming and realize I didn't like him.

There are nights when old memories come back and I wish I could reach through time and grab the old Powell by the shoulders.

"Wake up. Look at what you have. Look at who you're hurting. Stop being stupid before you lose something you'll spend years trying to understand."

But time doesn't listen. It doesn't rewind. It doesn't care how badly you regret something. It just keeps moving, leaving you alone with the consequences.

And that's the part nobody tells you about mistakes — sometimes you don't lose someone when they leave. Sometimes you lose them the moment you realize you should've treated them differently.

And then you're left standing in the ruins thinking, I did this.

Not fate. Not bad luck. Me.

But Bliss, I don't want my regret to become another burden you have to carry. I don't want you to feel responsible for whether I forgive myself. That's mine.

You already gave me enough. More than enough. You gave me moments I will probably carry for the rest of my life.

You gave me laughter when I needed it. Comfort when I didn't know how to ask for it.

And those hugs — God. Those hugs.

I don't know how someone can hold you for a few seconds and somehow make years of heaviness feel lighter. But you did. And I hope you know how much that meant.

If one day you find someone else, I hope he's better than me. Honestly. I hope he's everything my stupid ass struggled to be.

I hope he notices when your voice changes. I hope he remembers the little things. I hope he doesn't make you beg for reassurance.

I hope he never makes you question whether you're loved.

I hope when you're having one of those terrible days, he doesn't ask you why you're being difficult.

I hope he asks, "What happened?" And stays.

I hope he loves you without making you wonder if you're too much. I hope he gives you the patience I didn't have. The maturity I didn't have. The understanding I learned too late.

And if he's better than me — good. I mean that.

Because you deserve someone who doesn't need to lose you first to understand your value. You deserve someone who knows it immediately.

Someone who doesn't need a goodbye to finally appreciate your presence. Someone who doesn't turn your heart into a lesson because he was too stupid to treat it like a home.

I hope he does better. I hope he does everything I couldn't.

And if someday you love him more than you ever loved me, I hope you don't feel guilty.

You owe me nothing. Not your loyalty. Not your memories. Not your forgiveness. Not even a place in your future.

I was given a place in your life once. What I did with it was my responsibility. And I failed it. That's mine to carry. Not yours.

Maybe you'll forget me. Maybe you'll remember me only as a mistake. Maybe one day my name won't mean anything at all.

And strangely, I think I'd rather you be happy without remembering me than unhappy because you couldn't forget me.

Because loving someone sometimes means accepting that you might not belong in their next chapter. Even when some part of you still wishes you did.

Bliss, you changed me. Not gently. Not beautifully.

You changed me by forcing me to look at parts of myself I would've rather buried.

You made me understand that good intentions don't erase bad decisions. That caring about someone doesn't automatically mean you know how to treat them right.

That regret isn't the same thing as redemption. And that saying "I would've done better" means nothing unless you actually become better.

So that's what I'm trying to do. Not to earn you back. Not to make you forgive me. Not so you can look at me someday and say, "Maybe he wasn't that bad."

I'm trying because I don't want the worst version of me to be the final version.

I don't want another person to meet me and inherit the damage I refused to grow from. I don't want another heart to pay for mistakes that started with yours.

So yes, I remember. I remember what I did. I remember what I lost.

But I also remember what you gave me. The laughter. The comfort. The hugs. The little moments that somehow made everything feel survivable.

And I will always be grateful that for some part of my life, I got to know you.

Bliss, if you ever wonder whether I hate myself for hurting you — I don't want hatred to be the ending. I want accountability to be.

I want the regret to mean something. I want every time I remember your name to remind me:

Never become that version of yourself again.

Because you deserved better. You deserved the version of me I hadn't become yet.

And maybe that's the darkest truth I'll ever have to accept — I could've been better. I just wasn't. Not then. And there is nothing I can do about that now.

So if life gives you someone who treats you better, let him. If he loves you better, let him. If he makes you happier than I ever could, please, don't look back at me with guilt.

Look forward. You don't owe the past your future.

And if someday you remember Powell, I hope you remember more than the mistakes.

Remember the boy who was grateful for you. The boy who found relief in your arms when his shoulders felt too heavy for him. The boy who could breathe a little easier because you were there.

Remember the boy who was helped by your kindness in ways you may never fully understand. Remember the boy who learned from you.

Remember the boy who, despite all his mistakes, will always be thankful that for a little while, you were part of his world.

You had every reason to hate me. Maybe some part of you always will. And I can't ask you to change that.

All I can do is make sure the person I become from here never gives another girl the same reasons.

Because if there is anything good that can come from the worst parts of me, let it be this: I learned. Too late for us, perhaps. But not too late for the person I'm still becoming.