He tells you he’s okay and you believe him, because you have to; because not believing him would mean he’s lying about the fractured ribs and the ligature marks on his neck that make his voice sound like it hurts to speak. He tells you not to worry, that he’s been at this for twenty some odd years and he’s use to the pain, but the stakes are higher now, the threats are greater, and all you can do is watch a man that you’ve come to love, take longer and longer to heal. It doesn’t escape you how much more grey is in his hair from when you first met him, how many new scars litter his body, how he tries to quiet the sound of every twinge and ache that he feels just getting up out of bed.
You tell him to rely on you more and he says he’s gonna, but somehow it feels like another lie.
One day, the man you love will die, and it’ll be his own damn fault, but you’ll still feel responsible and he’ll give you one last look and say that he’s glad it was him.
And it’ll finally be the truth.
