MUSZĘ WAS PRZEPROSIĆ

Sometimes growing up isn't about wisdom, but about chronic sleep deprivation and the sudden realisation that pain can become a habit. Everything seems to be let go, but at night you still take apart your "thens" and "whys" piece by piece. In memory are calls that are no longer there, and people you can no longer call. It's gotten a little calmer, but not easier. Just be quiet. There's something touchingly human about admitting mistakes you can't fix and still saying "I'm sorry" - even if the listener is only in your head. Between regret and relief, a strange tenderness is born, like after a storm - wet, tired, but real.