regretting nom writing sad words 051124 ... FauxGrr Things I cannot remember: How did you know where I lived? How did we start speaking? What were our conversations like? The extent of my mental and emotional turmoil accompanied by self harm during that time was so profound that it obscured my memories of that one day we spent together. Things I do remember: My profound attraction to you, but the practical challenges—thousands of miles between us and my shrinking budget for shows—made any future interaction seem unlikely. Your smile Pheromones - you always smelled intoxicating to me My apprehension The shirt The fragments of memory felt so ethereal, I was convinced they were a dream. But then I found the shirt, tucked away in a forgotten box, bearing silent witness to our encounter twenty years later. The subsequent discovery of our sparse email correspondence (I'd deleted most of yours, but my sents were still there) revealed that we had been friends. Things I regret: The apprehension. Scarred by previous abusive relationships, I had constructed walls around my heart. When you traveled such a long distance to see me, my trauma-informed perspective couldn't conceive of simple friendship—I automatically assumed hidden, potentially harmful motives. I was a fucking fool. Of all the moments I've revisited in my mind, this stands as my most profound regret: not fully understanding you when I had the chance. The landscape of memory is littered with missed connections, but our brief encounter haunts me with a particular intensity. What fragments remain are like beautiful, broken shards—tantalizing glimpses of a deeper connection I was too wounded or distracted to fully embrace. In quiet moments, I find myself trying to reconstruct our time together, turning over each memory like a delicate piece of glass, trying to understand how something so potentially significant could have slipped through my fingers. The geography of our brief intersection—the physical distance, the emotional barriers, the fleeting nature of our meeting—becomes a metaphor for lost potential. Time has a way of revealing what we couldn't see in the moment. Now, with years of perspective, I understand the rarity of those connections that feel simultaneously familiar and extraordinary. You were someone who could have been—perhaps should have been—more than a passing chapter in my story. Yet I allowed fear and trauma to keep me from truly knowing you. And I so wanted to know you. I am so sorry. 241210 what's it to you? who go blather from