Loving You Was Easy

I loved him.
Even as I pressed the pillow down, I whispered it like a lullaby.
“I love you. I love you.”

He struggled for only six seconds. That’s what the coroner would say later. Six seconds until the fight left his limbs and silence claimed the bedroom.

And now, I live inside that silence.


---

Before the End

Jared and I had the kind of marriage people posted about. Jared and Elise Thatcher: college sweethearts, a wedding beneath a willow tree, a craftsman home on the edge of town. We had dinner parties, matching mugs, and laughter that echoed down the hall.

But perfection is thin as paper. Behind closed doors, we were tearing at the seams.

It started with absences. Jared working late. Jared out with “the guys.” Jared coming home with excuses and cologne that didn’t smell like mine. At first, I denied it. Then I blamed myself. Then I blamed him.

But even then, I loved him.


---

The Shifting

Guilt is a strange ghost. It doesn’t scream or haunt like anger. It seeps in quietly, like mold behind drywall. Jared’s smile began to flicker. His appetite vanished. He apologized for everything—even when I didn’t say a word.

He bought me earrings I didn’t ask for. Flowers every Friday. Vacations we couldn’t afford.

Once, I caught him staring at his reflection, muttering something under his breath. When I asked what he was doing, he turned to me and said, “I can’t even look at myself anymore.”

He was breaking. Not from fear of me, but of himself.

That was when I knew.


---

The Last Dinner

On our anniversary, he made reservations at a small Italian place. We drank wine like we were strangers on a first date. He reached for my hand across the table and held it like it would slip away.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said.

“You don’t,” I replied with a smile.

That night, we danced barefoot in the living room to our wedding song. His lips found mine like they remembered what love used to feel like. For a moment, we were back where we started—naive, untouchable, happy.

Then we lay in bed. He kissed my forehead and whispered, “If I don’t wake up tomorrow, just know I’m sorry.”


---

The Act

Morning light poured in through our thin curtains. I made coffee. Toasted bagels. His favorite strawberry jam. He stayed in bed, flipping through a book he’d read ten times.

I sat beside him. My fingers ran through his dark curls. I leaned in and asked, “Do you love me?”

He looked up and smiled. “Too much.”

I reached for the pillow.

It didn’t feel like rage. It felt like release. A surrender. A mercy.

He struggled, yes. But only for a few seconds. His eyes widened. His body went rigid.

Then still.

I stayed there, the pillow still pressed, even after it was done. Just breathing. Counting.

“I love you,” I whispered again. “I love you.”


---

The Lie

The medical examiner ruled it a sudden cardiac arrest in his sleep. He’d taken a sleeping pill the night before. No evidence of foul play. No trauma. Just a man who didn’t wake up.

I cried. I wore black. I read a eulogy that made people weep. They called me strong. They told me how lucky he was to have had a wife like me.

They never asked what happened to the pillow.

They never saw the way his hand had clutched mine until the very end.


---

The Letter

A week later, I found it. A letter with my name on it, in his handwriting. Tucked between the pages of his old novel. I haven’t opened it. I tell myself I will. One day.

But I know what it says.

Jared knew.

Of course he did.


---

Guilt Has a Face

I still talk to him. Out loud sometimes. I ask him if he forgives me. I ask if he’s still angry. If he’s still here.

Some nights, I dream of him standing in the doorway, his eyes soft, voice echoing: “You didn’t have to do it.”

In the dream, I always reply: “Yes, I did.”

And I believe it.

Because he was disappearing in pieces, and I couldn’t bear to watch him vanish. Guilt had swallowed the man I loved and left behind a husk filled with apologies and regret.

So I gave him peace.


---

One Year Later

The neighbors ask if I’m dating again. I smile and say, “Not yet.” They nod, awkwardly, as if unsure what grieving really looks like.

They don’t know I still wear my ring. That I still cook for two. That I still imagine him singing in the shower.

They don’t know about the dreams.

Or the scratching sounds in the night.

Or how sometimes I find my bedroom door open, even though I remember locking it.


---

The Question

I tell myself he’s gone.

I tell myself I freed him.

I tell myself love justified everything.

But late at night, when the house is too quiet and the air feels heavy, I hear his voice.

And I ask myself:

Did I kill him out of love... or because I couldn’t bear being unloved anymore?