𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “To whom, if not myself?” by Lara Marie De Leon

Published by: Shaina Pajarillo

Date Published: July 2, 2025

Time Published: 12:13 PM

Category: Prose

Subject: Apologies.

Very early in my life, my hand learned how to fold inward and close in apology.

I found they’re not for holding nor to beckon. My hands seemed to always be ready to perform, only they trembled before even taking the stage. Even when they’re polished clean of any faults, they’re haunted by the guilt of wrongdoing. It’s as though they remember crimes I never committed, as if guilt seeps through my skin from some hidden ancestral wound.

Apology always looked to me like a foggy windshield—always distorting the view, softening every sharp reality into something half-visible.

I wear my 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺𝘴 like layered coats in summer—unnecessary, suffocating. But it’s something I’d get sick without. My apologies almost become a punctuation, like it’s every breath—every sentence ends with guilt. I rarely speak; I only withdraw. The world touches my arm, and I flinch in apology. Joy was a dish I was forbidden to taste.

I became a graveyard of apologies no one asked of me. 𝘚𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦. I whisper remorse into walls of empty grand halls like incense, in hopes of cleansing something unseen.

I’m sorry for forgetting, even when my memory possesses teeth and bites back; I’m sorry for the light cruelties of indifference; kindness was something I never had enough courage to give; I’m sorry for the laughter that was too much, too sharp, too loud.

Guilt never fades in me; it grows. It sits caged in my ribcage, pressing against the walls of my flesh as it ferments. It folds like a piece of paper, creases manifesting in places no one can seem to hold. Voices of strangers tell me to let it go. I nod and then hold onto it tighter. It is, after everything, the only weight I learned how to carry with grace.

Apologies became my ritual, a second nature. I offer apologies like loose change in a beggar’s cup, praying someone would say, “That’s enough.” No one ever does, so I toss another, and another, and another, coin by coin. 

Even when my lungs are peeled thin and words feel like a sharp splinter, I let them flow out. I’m sorry. Always. Even when there is no audience left to hear of it. I am sorry. Not even as a truth. But as a reflex. A shadow stitched to my being.