I STAY

“ Hm …”

“What?”

“…Nothing.”

“What are you implying—nothing?”

“It has no bearing.”

“Then why did you say hm if it doesn’t matter?” I asked.

“I just had an idea.”

“About?”

“…Nothing.”

“Okay.”

“…I mean—”

“Yes?”

“Ignore it.”

“Okay.”

“I only worry.”

“Concerned about what?”

“Honestly, forget it. I can’t right now. You’ve already started explaining it to me several times.”

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. Everything.”

“What’s the point of that?”

“I’m worried about everything.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just am.”

“That’s obvious.”

“No… I do know.”

“Oh?”

“I worry about everything that will follow her.”

“Her. Not her again?”

“Don’t defend yourself—you were wrong.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. But I don’t know how else to reassure you that there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I think that’s the point.”

“What?”

“That you can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“You can’t confirm it. You can’t promise me that nothing will go wrong. After her—and that entire year of uncertainty, fear, and hopelessness—just saying it isn’t enough. You’ve been better lately. Probably the best in a long time.”

“She never leaves.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Or are you just trying to be positive and understanding?”

“A bit of both. She’s very familiar to me.”

“Really?”

“She’s the person I face every day when you’re gone and I’m left alone with her. The tension—like a glass balanced on the edge of a table—adds spice to every interaction.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“I know. It’s alright. But I do know.”

“Tell me.”

“Tell you?”

“About her. You know her well. Are you sure you want to know?”

“I probably shouldn’t ask.”

“Please. Describe her.”

“Okay… I won’t get angry.”

“I know. This is just the beginning. She’s like a whirlwind without a weather warning. She arrives and changes everything.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“That’s just it. It’s not bad—wrong word. It disorients. It disarms. But I knew what I was signing up for.”

“Go on…”

“She’s unpredictable. I never know which version I’ll get. That’s hard.”

“Yes. Difficult. But there are benefits.”

“Benefits?”

“Sometimes she gets excited and says things like, ‘I want to paint the sky, the stars, the dirt,’ even if there’s no paint. There’s this frantic energy in her descriptions.”

“That sounds hopeful.”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t label it positive. But it’s better than the other times.”

“What other times?”

“When she lashes out and tells me to fuck off—or disappears entirely. Then I worry. I worry that it’ll be the last time I see her. Those fears are immeasurable.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? You don’t need to apologize.”

“It’s just… I’m a lot to deal with. I cause so much trouble. You remember everything. I forget entire pieces. You live through it all.”

“There are moments when she still looks like you. When I see you—maybe a truer version.”

“But it’s still a lot.”

“It is. But that’s life, isn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“Listen. She makes me feel small sometimes. Inadequate. But she’s you—and you’re her—so I don’t stay because it’s easy. I probably hurt you more than I should.”

“It doesn’t matter to me.”

“It does.”

“You do so much.”

“I do what anyone should.”

“I don’t know. You’ve given up so much.”

“That’s marriage. Compromise gets a bad reputation. Meeting in the middle doesn’t mean accepting less than you deserve. It means knowing what’s worth sacrificing for.”

“You’re kind of amazing.”

“Shush.”

“I mean it.”

“So am I.”

“You are. You never curse when she’s gone and some balance returns. You worry, you threaten, but you never complain.”

“Would it matter if I did?”

“Maybe not. But you always pick up the pieces.”

“You pick them up when I can’t.”

“That’s the thing. I don’t stay because it’s simple. I stay because you’re worth it. The sleepless nights. The endless talks. The tears. The chaos. It’s worth it—for you. I stay for you.”