To My Queen,
My Love, My Moma.

I messed up.

I'm not going to dress it in flowers or soften it with beautiful language — even though that is usually how I speak to you. The truth deserves plainness right now.

I made a mistake that I wish I could take back. I hurt someone who never deserved to be hurt. And that someone is you.

I know what I did — or didn't do. And I am sitting with the weight of that every single day. Not because I am afraid of losing something, but because you are someone who deserves to be treated with every ounce of intentionality I claimed to have.

This letter is not an excuse. It is a confession. I messed up, and I am owning that fully.

I'm sorry.

Not the kind of sorry that exists just to end the silence. The kind that wakes me up at 3am and makes me replay everything, wishing I could rewrite it.

I'm sorry for the hurt I caused you. For any moment you looked to me and I wasn't who you needed. For any time you deserved better and I gave you less.

You are the lady who became my favourite chapter. And I treated that chapter carelessly, like I didn't know its worth — even though, deep down, I know it is the best thing I've ever read.

Your laugh is something I would go out of my way to cause. I pay attention to what you like — even the small things — so I remember them before I sleep. With you, nothing ever felt like effort. Until I made it one. And for that, I'm deeply, genuinely sorry.

I wrote this with everything. Almost more than words could carry.

I'm asking for another shot.

Not because I deserve it. But because I promise that if you give it, I will not take it for granted. Not even for a second.

I know you, Mitchelle. I know what makes you laugh. I know what you care about, what you love, what you deserve. And I am asking — no, I am requesting — the chance to be the person who gives you all of it, this time without the fumble.

You said "utanitafuta" — and you really meant it. I know that. So this is me finding you first.

I'm not asking you to forget. I'm asking you to believe that people can get it right the second time. I'm asking you to believe I am one of those people.

To: My Queen. My Love. My Moma.
From: The gent who still reads it every day.

My feelings are too wide for words, too warm for sentences.

Today I felt like you deserve to know what you have done to me. What you continue to do. Simply by being you — quietly magnificent.

I love the way you exist. I love that I notice things about you that you don't notice about yourself. I love that being around you makes the world feel like it's running at the right speed. I love that even when I'm away from you, you're still somehow present — in the way I think, in what I reach for, in what I want to become.

You are not just someone I care about. You are someone I have built things around. Someone I see in my future and smile. Someone I think about before I sleep.

I love you, Mitchelle. With all the love words can carry.

I miss you.

Not just in the dramatic, heavy way. I miss you in the small moments. The ones that sneak up on you. I'll hear something and want to text you. I'll see something funny and reach for my phone. I'll have a good day and want to tell you about it first.

I miss your laugh. The kind I'd go out of my way to cause. I miss the way you say "utanitafuta" — like a promise, like a dare. I miss the way being around you makes everything feel worth showing up for.

I miss us.

And I know missing someone isn't enough to fix anything. But I hope it tells you something — that what we had was real, that it mattered, and that the version of me that would take it for granted is not the version writing this to you now.

I miss you, Mitchelle. Genuinely.