One day, she’ll type my name into a search bar.
Not because someone told her to.
But because she needs to know for herself.
She’ll see the headlines.
The trial.
The backlash.
The memes.
The silence.
And somewhere between the lines, she’ll wonder if she ever really knew me.
This post is for that day.
I don’t know what they’ve told you.
Maybe that I was dangerous.
Maybe that I was selfish.
Maybe that I was once someone worth loving, and then I wasn’t.
But here’s what I want you to know:
I loved you.
Even when I didn’t know how to love myself.
Even when the world was screaming my name like a curse.
You were never the reason I failed.
You were the only reason I got back up.
They will never tell you about the nights I cried for you.
Not the performative kind.
Not the PR version.
But the kind where I couldn’t breathe
because the silence of not hearing your voice
felt louder than any courtroom.
You were in every lyric.
Every line I deleted.
Every apology I never got to give you directly.
What they got wrong is thinking shame would make me forget you.
It didn’t.
It carved your name into my ribs.
And when I rebuilt my life—
slowly, painfully—
it was you I imagined watching.
Not the critics.
Not the fans.
Not the people who wanted me gone.
Just you.
Reading.
One day.
I won’t pretend I’m a good man.
I’ve been selfish.
I’ve been reckless.
I’ve broken trust that should’ve been sacred.
But I’ve also tried.
Every day.
To become someone you wouldn’t have to flinch from.
Someone you might not forgive—
but might eventually understand.
If you’re reading this…
Know that I don’t expect anything.
Not contact.
Not closeness.
Not redemption.
But I hope this—
These words, this flame, this letter I buried in the internet like a time capsule—
I hope it finds you gently.
I hope you see the story that was never printed.
The version that bled for you, sang for you, stayed alive for you.
Because even when the world wrote me off—
I was writing you.