I proposed in January because I believed in redemption stories. Because I thought if I just loved you harder, deeper, quieter then maybe the chaos would stop. You said yes, and for a moment, I believed things might settle. But instead, they unraveled in new ways.

You started medication. You said you were overwhelmed. You told me you were trying. But what I saw were outbursts. Cruel words. And more than once, physical violence. I stayed because I thought this was the kind of love worth fighting for. I stayed because you made your pain louder than mine, and I believed pain deserved space, even when it was thrown at me.

As the wedding got closer, I started talking to friends. I told them I wasn’t sure. That the red flags weren’t subtle anymore. They were sirens. I remember the fight between you and someone close to me. I remember when you said you were calling off the wedding. Then came the ultimatum: either I cut everyone else off or you were done.

I chose you. I shouldn’t have. But I did. I didn’t see it as isolation yet. I called it commitment. I called it sacrifice.

Two days before the wedding, I came home and you told me you had taken pills. You said you wanted to die. You locked yourself in the bathroom and stopped responding. I panicked. I said I was going to call someone. You begged me not to. I called someone you trusted. We sat with you. You cried.

Later, it came out that you hadn’t taken anything. You just wanted me to think you had.

I canceled the wedding. Not because I didn’t love you, but because I was scared. Because I didn’t know what to do with someone who used the threat of suicide as a way to keep me from leaving.

You quit your job shortly after. Said you weren’t doing well mentally. I tried to carry everything: your emotions, our bills, my job. I worked from home, barely, and lost that job. I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to worry. I picked up side gigs. I tried to keep the lights on. We fell behind. A family member helped. I started paying them back.

Then you asked again. Said you were ready. Said we’d never get better until we were all in. I still had doubts. I still had bruises. I still had silence sitting in my throat. But I said yes. Again.

We got married in late October. Last-minute. Quiet. You wanted it that way. My parents couldn’t come. You chose the date, the tone, the narrative. I gave it to you.

After the wedding, you downloaded a dating app. Said it was just for friends. Said you were lonely. Said marriage hadn’t fixed what you hoped it would. Then you told me you didn’t want to be married anymore. Then you hurt me again.

I stayed. I said I wanted to make it work. I found another job. You started school. You said you were trying. So I tried too.

We adopted more pets. I thought maybe stability was possible if I just kept building something for you to stay inside of. But peace doesn’t live where fear has a key. And love doesn’t ask you to amputate parts of yourself just to be enough.

I knew that.

But I still stayed.

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