They Still Don’t Know It Was Me. And I’m Okay With That.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I told them.

What their faces would look like.

If they’d yell. Or cry. Or laugh like it was nothing.

If they’d feel betrayed — or finally relieved to know the truth.

But I’ve never said it.

Not to them. Not to anyone.

Because secrets, as heavy as they are, can become armor.

And mine?

It protects me.

I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.

Not really.

It was one of those decisions that happens quickly — impulsively — in a moment when you don’t realize how permanent the consequences will be.

And by the time I saw the aftermath, it was easier to stay quiet than to step forward.

They still talk about it sometimes.

Still speculate.

Still blame the wrong people.

And every time I hear them guess,

I feel that old rush — fear mixed with power.

Because I know something they don’t.

I carry something they can’t.

And maybe that makes me awful.

Maybe it makes me human.

But after all this time, the truth would just unravel everything.

The friendships. The family ties. The fragile peace we’ve all managed to build.

So no, I’m not planning to tell them.

They still don’t know it was me.

And I’m okay with that.

At least… I think I am.