“I’m sorry,” I say over and over again to the empty car on the drive home. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I don’t know if she’s listening, but I hope she is. I really need her to know. “For now, for then, for all of it.” I take a deep, agonizing breath and wipe my eyes. “Meg,” I say, the name feeling so familiar yet so foreign on my lips. “I’m sorry. I love you.”
It hurts so much, but I have to say her name. Because if she is listening, I need her to know I’m talking to her. I need her to know how perfect she was, and how I destroyed everything the moment I almost sat in that wad of gum, and how I will never forgive myself as long as I live.