She thought there'd be sufficient time if she hid her watch. If she couldn’t see the hour slipping past, maybe she wouldn’t feel the urgency pressing in on her ribs. Maybe she could write the letter slowly, carefully—like it deserved. She folded the watch into the desk drawer and sat down. I’m sorry, she wrote. Then stopped. The words looked thin on the page. Overused. Already exhausted. She tried again. I didn’t understand then— No. That sounded like an excuse. She crossed it out. Outside, the light shifted. She could feel it without looking. Late afternoon, probably. Or later. She thought about all the conversations she’d rehearsed instead of having. All the times she’d waited for the perfect moment, the perfect wording, the perfect version of herself. There had always been time, until there wasn’t. Her pen hovered. What did you say to someone who might never read it? What did you say when the apology came too late to change anything except yourself? She exhaled, long and unsteady, and started again. I was cruel when I thought I was right. I was silent when I should have been kind. I don’t expect you to answer this. I just need you to know that I see it now. The words came easier after that. Not perfect. Not polished. But real. When she finished, the room was dim. She didn’t reach for the watch. Didn’t check how long it had taken, or how long it had been. Some things couldn’t be measured that way. She folded the letter, even though she didn’t know where to send it, and held it in both hands for a moment. It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t undo what had been done. But it shifted something—just enough. It wasn’t forgiveness she felt, but it was close enough to keep going.