I’m sorry to the nice Hinge boys I ghost.
The apps overwhelm me. I hate searching on there, reading through your descriptions of lazy Sundays and ideal girlfriends. I hate when one of you says you’re looking for ‘just sex’ or ‘a future wife who knows her place.’
However, I’ve ghosted many boys that haven’t said anything offending or rude to me. The conversations I’ve left unattended often featured perfectly pleasant topics — college classes or favorite vacations or gym routines.
The truth? I get bored. I like small talk, but texting about the most random parts of my life to a stranger feels awkward. I desperately want someone who knows every little nook and cranny of me — to know and understand all aspects of who I am — and Hinge just becomes a frustrating reminder that I don’t have that right now.
I know I’m not the only one; ghosting has become easy and popular, but I don’t care. Even if it’s hard for me, I know that disappearing on kind people isn’t fair. I’m sorry for the silence. I’m sorry for the missed chances. I know that maybe, just maybe, something good could’ve grown from one of those conversations. And I’ll try to do better.
I’m sorry to the theatre director who was angry with me.
Even now, I feel a twinge of panic thinking about that moment in the green room — your voice raised, your orders loud enough for the rest of the cast to hear. “Speak-sing, don’t sing,” you said, enunciating your words. Did you think I was stupid?
I heard the shuffling of my friends outside the green room door and saw a few of their faces pressed nosily to the window. I wanted to die. “I don’t want your natural singing voice. I want simple, speak-singing. Is that clear?”
I nodded. Very clear.
“Or you won’t do anything at all. Understand?”
I nodded.
“After rehearsal, we’ll run down to the pit so you can practice it. And we’ll see if you can do it.”
I nodded.
You stepped away from me, and I walked back toward the stage, where my cast-mates stared. The leads watched me take my place in the ensemble, a healthy distance away.
Did you notice that I didn’t sing for the rest of the week? That I only mouthed the words that had become muscle memory after all those months of practice?
Weeks later, you apologized. Do you remember that? Once again, you found me in the crowd of cast-members and ushered me over to the drink stand. Amidst our cast party — high schoolers singing, flirting, and telling tall tales of their performances — you looked me in the eyes, but I couldn’t look into yours. “I’m sorry for yelling,” you said.
“It’s fine. Congrats on your retirement,” I quickly muttered. I didn’t realize that that would be the last time I would speak to you.
I’m sorry I said everything was fine. It wasn’t. No teacher should talk to a student like that, especially one that was truly doing their best to do what you asked of them. I’m sorry I did the childish thing — instead of talking to you, I talked to everybody else.
I was not afraid to tell everyone about my bad experience with you. I took the task of raking your name through mud like it was a class assignment. I told your unkind words and transformed it into a war story.
Now, I see that I should have had the courage to be honest with you, and I wish I could go back, take your apology, and shut up about it all. That would have been best for both of us, and it was cruel of me to do otherwise.
I’m sorry to boy I stole a candy necklace from.
I stole the candy necklace from your parade bag, careful to not let its noisy packaging give me away. I snuck it into my front jean short pocket with your back turned.
It wasn’t until I got home that my thievery was revealed. As my mom pulled the sugary jewelry from my dirty clothes pile, she asked why I had candy in my pocket.
“Is this candy someone else’s?”
I shrugged.
“Which kid?” she asked. When I said your name, she sighed. “Did you ask him if you could have it?”
“No,” I admitted.
She scratched the back of her neck, a sign she was frustrated. “Did you steal it without him knowing?”
“…yes.”
“That’s terrible. You don’t steal from your friends. Give it back when we see him on Wednesday.” And she set on top of my dresser, giving me the responsibility to right my wrong.
I nodded, but I had no intention of giving it back to you. I kept it to keep from having an awkward conversation with you. I am sorry about that. And I’m sorry that I let you lose your candy necklace so I could keep my pride.
I haven’t talked to you in years, and we are not really friends anymore. There are no more parades and hometown celebrations to keep us in our lives. We now live separately.
But if I still had a relationship with you, I would tell you that I still think about stealing from you. And I’m sorry that I was too embarrassed to fix the situation, leaving you without the best candy in the bag.
I’m sorry to the boy I dumped on an Iowa City sidewalk.
I’m sorry I broke up with you in public. I was the one who let students surround our tearful conversation, no doubt looking over their shoulders as they passed, curious as to what was making us cry.
“This is not working. I can’t do it anymore,” I said, and your eyes automatically filled with tears. You started to whisper “no” over and over again, muttering it as I continued breaking up with you.
Did you know that you were saying the word aloud? It seemed like such a natural response to such terrible news, and — behind the carefully calculated break-up speech — I wondered how aware you were of your speech.
I promise I could hear your pleas, and your “no”s broke my heart. I’m sorry I talked over you, rushing to the finish line of that awful break-up. When you tried to wrap your arms around me, I’m sorry I was so rough when I pushed them away.
Now, I’ll tell you the honest truth: I didn’t trust myself. If I stopped talking, I was scared that I would chicken out and take you back. “You’re right,” I pictured myself saying. “Thank God you stopped me for making such a horrible mistake. This was a bad idea. What’s two more years?”
But you and I both know that I didn’t back down. I’m not sorry we don’t talk anymore, but I do want you to know that I don’t think that you’re a bad person, and I truly want the best for you.
However, I am sorry about how it all ended. I’m sorry I walked away angry and hurt, and I am sorry that let that dictate some of my words. Know that after you, I could see the impact an end could make.
