Norman

I spent the whole of today clearing out my room. There's a mountain of stuff packed into plastic bags and stacked in the living room waiting to be thrown out tomorrow. Old bills, bags, skincare, papers, boxes... I don't even remember what I threw out anymore. I don't know how and why I accumulated so much stuff.

I was clearing out the drawer. And I found a note from you. It's written on a red square piece of paper and your small handwriting fills both sides. I think it came in a green envelope, because there's a loose green envelope hidden in another stack of paper with the same handwriting. You chose the red because I had told you then that I was going to paint my bedroom door a bright, flaming, fire engine red.

There's also a Christmas card. In it you write, among other things, that you will remember me eternally. In jest, of course, but I think you meant it in some sort of way then. I hope you've forgotten by now. I'm sure you have, and are happy now.

It's a decade later, and I'm still really sorry. I've apologised many times over the past many years, but always in my head, in my heart, and under the invisible cloak of cyberspace.

I didn't finish reading your letter. The one that was bitter and painful and full of reproach. I tore it up and tossed it away angrily. I was so mad I was shaking, but only because I was so full of guilt. I no longer knew how to face you.

Teenage melodrama. I should confronted your anger, you would definitely have forgiven me then. But it was years later before I wanted to face it and by then it was way too late.

I was actually right there when you came into Borders that night. You went past me and I hesitated. In a pivotal moment I walked out and I think that might have changed my life. It's laughable really, but I think you might be the single biggest regret of my existence.

I should bury your note and your card and your cheeky Geography George bookmark. I hide them amidst all my piles of paper but I think that's not enough. Still, I can't throw them away. They are my punishment. One day it will be enough and I will be able to look at them fondly, or indifferently, and I will be able to bury them where it matters. Just, not yet.