I think about you more often than you might expect. Sometimes fondly, sometimes with a gentle wince, always with a deep sense of gratitude. You were flawed, hopeful, confused, and brave in ways you never recognized. You navigated your life as best you could with the tools you had—and for that; I thank you.
It's easy, from this distance, to criticize your choices. To judge harshly your mistakes, the roads you wandered down, the bridges you set aflame. You carried your scars openly, never truly understanding their weight or the quiet strength they would eventually give you. You were so focused on survival, you rarely allowed yourself to thrive.
But now, with the benefit of perspective, I see something I couldn't appreciate before—how deeply you cared, how earnestly you tried, even when the effort went unseen or unappreciated. Beneath the bluster, the mistakes, the missteps, there was always a sincere heart beating—a heart seeking something better, even when it stumbled in its pursuit.
I remember your late nights clearly, filled with whispered bargains and half-hearted promises of tomorrow's redemption. I remember your fierce battles fought in silence, victories unnoticed, defeats worn silently. You held onto hope when there was little reason to. You believed in better days even when the world around you seemed intent on proving otherwise.
You weren’t perfect—far from it. But perfection was never your aim. Survival was your daily goal, and on many days, that alone was a monumental achievement. You built your life from the fragments of broken dreams, turning failure into quiet resilience, disappointment into reluctant wisdom.
If I'm being honest, it was hard leaving you behind. Familiarity is comforting, even when it's painful. I had grown used to your shortcomings, your excuses, your quiet resignation. But growth demanded departure. Progress meant stepping away from your shadow and embracing an uncertain, uncomfortable future.
So, slowly and sometimes reluctantly, I moved forward. But not without carrying parts of you with me. Your struggles became my strength, your doubts sharpened my convictions. I learned from your hesitations, grew from your setbacks. Every lesson you learned the hard way became a stepping stone towards who I am now.
Today, I'm writing to thank you for your endurance. For your quiet courage, even when it went unrecognized. For teaching me patience, humility, and empathy. Without you—your mistakes, your triumphs, your persistent hope—I wouldn't have become the man I am today.
I’m also writing to forgive you. For the times you faltered, the hearts you unintentionally bruised, the opportunities you overlooked out of fear or stubbornness. You did the best you could with what you knew at the time. And that, my old friend, is enough.
To the man I used to be:
Thank you for guiding me here. Thank you for your quiet strength, your unspoken bravery, your flawed but earnest humanity. I carry your lessons with gratitude, your memories with care, your journey as an essential part of my own.
You were exactly who you needed to be then, so I could become who I am now. And for that, I'll always be grateful.
Be well, old friend. You’ve earned your rest.
—Jack
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