I could explain to her why I left, and pepper her with apologies. I could write a longer reply, in an attempt to jot down what I thought happened, in a cogent, logical form, with a clear beginning and an even clearer end.
Or I could insert answers to where there are none, and form conclusions to the things we never addressed. I could start by saying, “Loving you came with a huge responsibility, something I couldn’t handle at the time, and I think I knew it.” Something that would reduce me, and empower her. I could give reasoning to my actions, even though I know, deeply, that my actions didn’t have meaning, nor thought, that I had lost control over time, and words: all that existed during those days, was space, filled to the brim with emptiness, overflowing with mindlessness.
Or I could tell her I’m okay, that I have a job now, and that I moved to Toronto. I can ask her what she’s up to, and maybe we can meet up for coffee sometime. End it nicely, neatly, as civil as it could possibly be.
Or I could do nothing, because she didn’t warrant a reply, and I wouldn’t want to overwrite.
Or I could–