I should have let you hug me.
I don't know why I didn't. I think it caught me off-guard, your willingness to embrace. It's unlike you.
And that's fine, not fine like it's mediocre or okay or sub par, not that at all, that's not what I mean. I mean, fine like "I'm not blaming you," "there's nothing wrong with that," "it's just not me."
You're not a hugger, I get it. I've understood that for years now. So maybe it was just confusing to me, a little shocking, a little unreasonable. Like you felt like you had to extend your arms, like it was the right thing to do, even if it's not what you wanted.
But you wouldn't have tried if you didn't want to, right? No one was forcing you to do anything. It was your humanity and inclination to be a provider, a sentimentalist, a real, genuine human with feelings and emotions and compassion. And I am sorry I mistook that for obligation.
I am sorry to you, and sorry for myself. I didn't want you to think I was repulsed. And I could have used the hug. Desperately, maybe.
It was unintentional and instinctual to recoil with such vigor, such determination.
Why is it that we see such futility in gestures of kindness? Such uselessness in comfort?
Is it the weakness we see in ourselves, pouring like oil from a spigot, dousing those to whom we are closest? Shimmering on their bodies, reflecting our own insecurities back to our eyes, begging to be examined, demanding to be discussed.
An apology restated: I am sorry I shied away. And it probably isn't necessary, and (likely) too late, but it means something to me to tell you, to tell the world I am sorry.
Sincerely, with love, with respect, and all those other words I will always mean,