There are days I don’t recognise you. Not in your words, not in your eyes, not in the way you look at me like I’m the stranger.
And I try—I really try—to remind myself that it’s not you, it’s the illness. But when the harshness cuts through, when your voice rises and your eyes narrow, It feels like I’m standing across from someone who no longer knows how to love me.
And it breaks me.
Because I remember the man who used to make me laugh,who used to protect me, who looked at me like I was the best thing he’d ever found.
I still see him sometimes—in the quiet moments, in the flicker of a smile,in the way your hand still searches for mine in sleep. But those moments feel fewer now.And I miss you. I miss you so much it feels like a grief that doesn’t end.
Sometimes, I resent this journey.I resent that I’m the one carrying the weight, that I have to stay calm when I feel like screaming, that I have to be strong when all I want is someone to say, “Let me take care of you for once.”
But still, I stay. Not out of duty. Not just because of vows spoken years ago. I stay because love—real love—isn’t about ease or comfort.It’s about presence.
And I promised you I would be here, even if you forgot who I was.
So I will hold your hand when it trembles. I will soothe your anger, even when I’m hurting too. I will walk beside you, even when it feels like you’ve turned against me. Because deep down, I know you’re still in there, lost in the fog.
But I also need to remember me.That I matter too. That my pain is real. That I’m allowed to cry, to ache, to question.And that none of this makes me weak — it just means I’m tired.
So tonight, I’m writing this for me.To release the guilt. To honour the struggle. To remind myself that I’m still here.
And I’m doing my best. Even on the days it feels like love is a battlefield. Even when it feels like I’ve lost you, one piece at a time.
I’m still here.And somehow, I still love you.
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