How can I blame the wind

 for the mess it made,

 if it was me

 who opened the window?

I knew it was cold.

I felt it waiting

 on the other side of the glass

 restless,

 uninvited,

 looking for somewhere to belong.

Still,

 I opened it.

Perhaps I wanted to feel something.

Perhaps I mistook the wind

 for freedom.

It scattered the papers

 I had spent years arranging,

 turned the curtains into ghosts,

 and carried away things

 I thought I had finally learned

 how to keep.

I watched the chaos

 and called it betrayal.

But the wind never promised

 to be gentle.

It only came

 when I gave it a way in.

And maybe that is the cruelest thing

 about some of our regrets

we spend years

 angry at what happened,

when the truth is…

we knew exactly what might happen.

We just hoped

 the consequences

 would be kinder to us

 than the choice was.

So no

I cannot blame the wind.

Not for entering.

Not for leaving everything

 out of place.

Not even for taking

 what it could carry.

Because sometimes,

the person we call the cause

 is only the consequence

 of a door we opened ourselves.

And sometimes…

the hardest apology

 is not to the person who hurt us

but to the version of ourselves

 who invited them in.