Specifically, how everything changes after he loses his arm.

He’s the same man you married, the same man that held you close every night, safe and secure, his love never loosening its hold on you.

But he doesn’t feel like it. Not anymore. When the moonlight slips through the crack in the curtain, her ghostly beams casting a mist that lurks over bright blue eyes that blink, sleeplessly into the darkness. He’s someone different. Lesser perhaps.

He winces as he gently shimmies his weight, easing out of bed without waking you. His arm aches and prickles as the blood rushes back, the pins and needles, the stiffness, the - oh.

That’s right. None of it was real.

In his minds eye, he can feel the pain, he can feel the ache as his fingers flex, fingernails digging into his palm. He can feel it. He swears.

He wonders for a moment if you regret it, if you harbour resent. He knows you don’t. He knows it. But he still doubts.

Would you ever get tired of helping him shave that one patch on his cheek he couldn’t quite reach? What about helping him scrub his back? Working the crick in his shoulder, you know, the one that flares up once in a while?

That’s what you wake up to, the man you love so dearly standing at the foot of your bed, in a little patch of moonlight, staring blankly at the space where his arm would occupy.

You think for a moment, wanting to pad up to him, wrap your arms around his back and coax him back to bed, sweet assurances and love to lull him back to sleep, tomorrow to be a better day. But tonight, something holds you back.