The plan 

The Plan I Never Got to Follow Through

I had a plan too.

Not a reckless one.

Not a manipulative one.

Just… a human one.

The weekend before, I’d been out with a mate. We’d had a few drinks, and somehow the conversation turned deeper than I expected. She asked me things — real things — and I answered. Fully. Honestly.

I surprised myself.

No defensiveness.

No hiding.

No half-truths.

Just the truth, coming out easier than it ever does when I’m sober.

And it made me realise something.

I wanted that with him.

I wanted one night where there were no walls. No guessing. No reading between the lines. No fear of saying the wrong thing.

I wanted to get drunk together and let him ask me anything — and I would have answered. Every question. Even the painful ones.

Not to fix things.

Not to convince him of anything.

Just to finally be understood.

Because the hardest part of all of this isn’t losing him.

It’s knowing he never truly knew me.

He knew pieces.

Fragments.

Versions shaped by fear and timing and silence.

But not the whole truth — the messy, flawed, emotional truth I carried inside.

I wanted him to hear it from me.

Not filtered through anger.

Not through embarrassment.

Not through other people.

Just me.

I think part of me hoped that if he could see how open I was willing to be, he’d understand that none of this came from cruelty or malice.

It came from loneliness.

From illness.

From fear.

From wanting to feel wanted when my body was already betraying me.

That night never happened.

The plan stayed in my head, unfinished.

And now I have to make peace with the fact that some conversations don’t get closure — they just end.

 

Things I Would Have Told You If You’d Asked

If you’d asked me — really asked — I would have told you the truth.

Not the defensive version.

Not the guarded one.

Not the one shaped by fear.

The real one.

I would have told you that I never set out to hurt you.

That nothing about it was calculated or clever or cruel. It started small — as distraction, as comfort — and then it grew faster than I knew how to stop.

I would have told you that loneliness does strange things to people who are already breaking.

That the loneliness strips you of control, dignity, confidence — and sometimes you reach for something just to feel human again.

I would have told you that I didn’t fall for a fantasy.

I fell for you.

Your humour.

Your steadiness.

Your presence, even from a distance.

The way you made ordinary moments feel lighter.

I would have told you that when you spoke kindly to me, it mattered more than you realised — because kindness is rare when your body is failing and your world keeps shrinking.

I would have told you that I didn’t use you.

I leaned on you — and I shouldn’t have — but it wasn’t exploitation. It was survival mixed with poor judgement and fear.

I would have told you that every time I tried to stop, I panicked.

Because stopping meant losing you completely.

And losing you felt unbearable at the time.

I would have told you that when I finally confessed, it wasn’t to clear my conscience.

It was because I couldn’t lie to you anymore.

I couldn’t look at you knowing you trusted something that wasn’t real.

I would have told you how ashamed I was.

How heavy that guilt sat in my chest.

How it followed me into hospital rooms and therapy sessions and sleepless nights.

I would have told you that when you were angry, I understood.

That you were allowed to be confused.

Embarrassed.

Hurt.

I never expected forgiveness.

I only hoped for understanding.

I would have told you that sleeping with you afterwards wasn’t manipulation.

It was two people clinging to familiarity while everything else felt like it was falling apart.

I would have told you that I never expected love from you.

I just wanted closeness — warmth — something that reminded me I was still alive.

I would have told you that I didn’t want to trap you.

I wanted you free.

Even if that freedom meant walking away from me.

I would have told you that I never hated myself more than when I realised I’d lost your friendship forever.

That hurt more than losing the physical side. More than losing hope.

Because friendship felt safe.

And I broke that.

I would have told you that even now, I don’t wish you pain.

I wish you peace.

I want your head quiet.

Your heart lighter.

Your days easier.

I want someone to love you in a way that doesn’t come with chaos or confusion.

I would have told you that loving you wasn’t something I chose.

It just happened.

And I don’t regret the feeling — only the way everything unfolded around it.

If you’d asked, I would have told you all of this.

But you didn’t.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because sometimes people don’t need the truth — they just need distance.

So I carry these words quietly now.

Not as a plea.

Not as an apology letter.

Just as the truth I would have given you — if you’d asked.

 

I Wanted Understanding, Not Forgiveness

I never wanted you to forgive me.

Not really.

Forgiveness feels too big. Too clean. Too final.

I knew I hadn’t earned it — and I never expected you to hand it to me just to make things easier.

What I wanted was understanding.

Not agreement.

Not sympathy.

Not excuses.

Just understanding.

I wanted you to see that what happened didn’t come from cruelty or manipulation or a desire to hurt you.

It came from broken places colliding.

I wanted you to understand that I wasn’t playing a game.
I was drowning — quietly — and clung to something that made me feel anchored for a moment.
I wanted you to understand that I didn’t wake up one day and decide to deceive you.
It unfolded slowly, messily, badly.
And by the time I realised the damage it was doing, I was already trapped in the shame of it.
I wanted you to understand that when I finally told the truth, it wasn’t to ease my conscience.
It was because I couldn’t stand lying to you anymore.
Because despite everything, I respected you.
Enough to tell you — even knowing it would end us.
I wanted you to understand that when you were angry, confused, embarrassed — I didn’t resent you for it.
You were allowed those feelings.
They made sense.
I wasn’t asking you to soften them.
I was asking you not to reduce me to the worst thing I ever did.