FOREST OF GUILT | HOW IT ENDS | A THOUGHT

A Proper Goodbye

To people, who ever called me a friend and meant it more than I did.

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This is it.

The forest doesn’t begin with a path. It begins with a decision you pretend wasn’t yours.

I step in anyway. I’m not braver, nor lost. It just... is

The trees are too tall here, too close, leaning inward like they’ve been waiting for me. Maybe they are. Their thin branches scraping against my arms, my shoulders, my memory. Every step forward is a soft tearing sound The forest isn’t quiet. It never is, I guess. I’ve been here before. Running.

It’s loud in the way silence never is. My conscience speaks first. Not in words. Not clean ones.

Just fragments moments I thought I buried under “I was busy” and “I forgot” and “I didn’t mean to.”

Faces I didn’t reply to. Messages I let rot. Then the guilt creeps in. Louder. Never a whisper. Selfish. Careless. Ungrateful.

I flinch at “friend.”

Because it feels… borrowed. Like something I held for so long without knowing how to keep it alive.

The leaves rustle. Not gently. Never gently. They move like they know. Like they’ve seen every version of me that chose distance over effort, silence over honesty, retreat over staying.

And the wind... God, the wind isn’t comforting. It doesn’t cool. It reminds.

Every trail I walked away from. Every person who stayed longer than I deserved. Every connection I let thin out until it snapped quietly, without drama, without closure—just a slow, unnoticed dying.

The deeper I go, the narrower it becomes. The forest tightens. Not crueler. It just is. This place isn’t punishment. It’s acknowledgment.

Not good. Not deserved. Never perfect. Just… proper. I stop when the trees close in so tightly the skie above feels like it disappears. There’s no clearing. No light waiting at the end.

I exhale. It sounds like surrender. Maybe I am. Or maybe it's an acceptance. I’m not sure there’s a difference anymore. And then, finally... I say it. Not to the forest. Not really.

To you.

To anyone who ever called me a friend and meant it more than I did.

“I’m sorry.”

The words don’t echo. Maybe remain unheard. Yet, They sink.

“I was there, but not really. I stayed, but not enough. I cared, I think—but not in ways that lasted. Not in ways that showed.”

The branches don’t scratch anymore. They just… rest.

“If you’re still considering me a friend...”

“Don’t."

“Or… don’t wait for me to be one.”

Because that’s the truth, isn’t it? I didn’t know how to stay. Didn’t know how to hold something without slowly letting it slip through me like it was never meant to last.

“I think this is where I end,”

I whisper. Not life. Not existence. Not physically dying—yet. Just… the version of me that kept failing people quietly. The forest doesn’t respond. It doesn’t forgive. But it doesn’t reject me either. It just is. And for the first time, so am I. Still flawed. Still unfinished. Still the same person who walked in. But at least here, in this place that remembers everything I tried to forget, I’m honest. And maybe that’s the closest thing I get to a proper goodbye.

I’m sorry

M² — she doesn’t make sense

Maybe a proper note before you think it’s really a goodbye. No it’s not. You can’t get rid of me that easily. I still bite (maybe the teeth are already sinking into your skin). But honestly? I think I’m suck at being a friend, or at maintaining it.

Writers, bring your chaos, your charm, and your half-baked drafts - Beyond Lines is ready for the beautiful mess. Let’s publish it!

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