The sorry you keep a chair open for
There’s a chair you keep open for him. Not at the table, in your mind. Every so often you catch yourself rehearsing the moment he finally says it. You know the words he’d use and how his voice would sound. You know what you’d say back, and you’ve rewritten that more times than you’d admit.
You asked how to let go “when part of me is still waiting for him to say sorry.” Look at the word part. You didn’t say all of you. Most of you went on, went to work, laughed with friends, made it through. One part stayed by the door.
With the Moon in Cancer, you hold on to what has touched you. Memories don’t fade for you the way they seem to for other people. They stay warm, and so do the wounds. The Sun was in Leo the day you were born, and a Leo heart knows its own worth. So the sorry isn’t small. It would mean someone finally saw what happened, and saw you in it.
Your mind says: “If he would just admit it, I could put this down.” It sounds reasonable. But notice what that sentence does. It hands the end of your own hurt to the one person who hasn’t shown up for it. As long as you’re waiting, he’s still the one holding the key.
The waiting keeps something else in place, too. While you wait for his words, you don’t have to stay with the hurt itself, the plain ache of what happened with no apology to soften it. Waiting feels like doing something. To feel the ache with nothing to cushion it is much harder, and much quieter.
If you want, close your eyes, let your hands rest palms down, and let your body be open. Feel your throat and chest from the inside, the place where the unsaid things sit. Just with attention. You don’t have to let go of anything right now. If you want to stop, you stop.
Waiting for him was never weakness. It’s the part of you that still knows what happened mattered. It did. You’re allowed to know that without hearing it in his voice.