The Apology Draft

I found them by accident, looking for a grocery list. My notes app opened to a folder I didn’t remember creating:

Apologies. Inside were hundreds of drafts, all unsent. All written in my voice. All dated weeks, months—years—in the future. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I’m sorry I said I had time.

 I’m sorry I thought this would fix itself. Some were addressed to people I recognized: my sister, my best friend, my father.

Others used names I didn’t know yet. A few were just titles—For the woman on the platform, For whoever finds this. The tone changed as the dates advanced.

Early drafts were careful, explanatory. Later ones were shorter. Desperate. I kept scrolling until I reached the last entry.

Tomorrow’s date. No subject. No justification. Just one line. I’m sorry I waited. My phone buzzed.

A reminder I had apparently set for myself. Don’t forget to apologize today. I stared at the empty message field, my fingers hovering, trying to decide which future I was about to make true.