I left the kitchen and stomped back to my room, furious at myself. I slammed the door, flung myself onto the bed, and started kicking it, no idea what I expected to achieve. I even hurt my shin a little. When I ran out of steam, I collapsed onto the same bed I'd been assaulting.
(Lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought) Yeah, I might not be as close to Lisa as I am to Anne, but I should have listened to reason. She's been trying so hard for me, and I never noticed. Am I ungrateful? Or did I never actually like her, and that blinded me? Now I'm in a mess and I don't know how to get out. Damn it. I hate regrets—but I do regret this. And with Lisa, once her mind is made up, I doubt I'll change it. (I turned to my left; the pill made my head ache, and I felt drowsy.) Sigh. "I'll sleep it off for now and figure something out when I wake up."
When I finally woke, it was around half past six in the evening, and I was starving. My stomach growled so loudly I felt weak. I'd taken a pill on an empty stomach. I dragged myself to the kitchen, reheated some leftovers, and forced down a meal.
Afterwards, I spent hours online hunting for ways to apologize to Lisa. All my searches led nowhere. My social circle was tiny: a few acquaintances, one friend I'd just argued with, distant relatives I never spoke to, and workmates I barely knew. I occasionally attended church, but I wasn't involved in activities, and there were no close church friends to help. In short, I had no one to turn to.
(Scratching my head, pacing the lounge, feeling lost) "Damn it! How am I supposed to do this? I just can't figure it out!"
I threw the sofa pillows to the floor and kicked them. I sat down, exhausted; the drowsiness from the medication still clung to me. The weather was hot, so I fell asleep on the floor; my sleep pattern wasn't stable anyway: sometimes I slept too much, sometimes not at all.
When I woke again, it was late. Lisa still hadn't come home. That made me think she might not be coming back that night. She had friends she visited often, but she never stayed out overnight. I had crossed a line this time. What would it take for her to forgive me? I wanted to rewind time and undo everything. But as the elders say, water spilled from a bowl cannot be recovered.
(Sitting on the arm of the sofa, agitated) How will I face Lisa? I wish the earth would open and swallow me. Why is saying sorry so hard? I tried to brainstorm: cook her favorite meal, buy her flowers, get her a gift. But each idea felt awkward, like something lovers did, not roommates. I hit my forehead with the palm of my hand. Ah—damn you, Lisa.
After more fruitless scrolling and more self-loathing, I narrowed it down to one option: call Anne, the very person at the center of this whole drama. Then I hesitated. Talking to Anne would only rile me up, and I might say worse things. So I decided to call my doctor instead. She'd told me I could call anytime I needed help.
I dialed. No answer. I tried again. On the fourth attempt, she picked up.
(Sleepy) "Tasha? Is everything okay?"
(Embarrassed) "I… I'm sorry for calling at this unholy hour, but I really need your help."
(Trying to stay awake) "Okay, what is it? By the way, you've been missing your sessions. Are you feeling unwell? Can you come tomorrow?"
I stammered and stumbled through the question. "It's… I want to know how to apologize to someone. Sincerely."
(Surprised) "Really? I thought you had an emergency."
(Doing my best to sound convincing) "If it wasn't urgent, I wouldn't be calling now. I need to make this right before Monday."
She hesitated. "I don't know if I can help over the phone… can we do this tomorrow?"
"No, that'll be too late. This is a 911 for me."
She sighed, but she didn't hang up. "Fine. Tell me briefly what happened, and I'll try to help."
We talked for nearly an hour and a half. She walked me through common apology strategies and what might actually feel sincere to someone like Lisa. By the time I hung up, I had an idea shaping in my head, something that might bridge the mileage between us.
Before I could drown in the planning, the food I'd ordered earlier arrived, thankfully. I ate. For once, I noticed how much Lisa had been doing for me: making sure I took my meds and ate on time. In that small, annoying way of hers, she'd been caring. That realization stung.
(Sighing and slapping my forehead) What an idiot.
After the meal, I tried to sleep early. Fatigue finally won over my chaotic thoughts, and I got some rest. The next morning, I woke up early, took a quick shower, and set out with Plan A for my apology. It was Sunday, church day, but I chose to handle this first. The following days promised to be long if I didn't.
I returned with a card. The left side had a printed apology, perfect for someone who struggled with words. The right side was blank, waiting for my own note. It was hard, but I forced myself to write. I spent a couple of hours reflecting and composing a personal apology, line by line, owning every word and every mistake.
When I finished, the weight in my chest had eased a little. It wasn't forgiveness, nothing like that, but it felt like the first step toward it.