There’s a specific kind of regret that comes from knowing you were the reason things fell apart. Not in a dramatic way, not through some single decisive betrayal, but in the slow accumulation of choices that seemed small at the time. The times you were selfish when you could’ve been present. The moments you chose your pride over their feelings. The arguments you won that cost you something you didn’t know you couldn’t afford to lose.
You don’t realise it while it’s happening. That’s the thing nobody prepares you for. You think you have more time. You think there’ll be another chance to get it right, another conversation to undo what the last one did. And then one day there isn’t ~ and you’re left sitting with every moment you could’ve been better, replaying them with the kind of clarity that only comes when it’s too late to do anything with it.
Accountability without the possibility of repair is its own kind of grief. Because you can’t apologise your way back to before. You can’t undo the version of yourself they had to keep forgiving until they couldn’t anymore. All you can do is carry it ~ and hope that eventually carrying it teaches you something.