Loving him never felt like effort.
It felt like breathing — quiet, automatic, something my body did before my mind could question it. I learned him slowly, in pieces. The way his shoulders stiffened when he was overwhelmed. The silence he carried when he didn't know how to explain himself. The small smile he gave when he thought no one was watching.
I loved him in the little ways people don't notice.
I remembered how he took his tea. I waited when he needed space. I stayed quiet when speaking would have caused another argument he didn't have the energy to fight. I told myself this was what love looked like — patience, understanding, compromise.
Somewhere along the way, my needs became optional.
I convinced myself I was strong enough to carry the weight of us both. That loving him meant being easy to love. Undemanding. Soft around the edges. I swallowed questions. I ignored the ache that crept in when I realized I was always adjusting, always understanding, always staying.
He never asked me to shrink.
But he never stopped me either.
I remember the night everything shifted. We were sitting across from each other, the room quiet in that uncomfortable way that comes before truth. He didn't look angry. He looked tired. And that scared me more than anger ever could.
"I don't think I can do this anymore," he said.
The words were gentle. Careful. As if he was trying not to break me.
But they did.
In that moment, I understood something I hadn't wanted to admit — love isn't supposed to feel like slowly disappearing. And home isn't supposed to feel like a place you're always afraid of losing.
That was the night loving him stopped feeling like safety.