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The Love That Cannot Exist
Carrying it to the grave.
One is structured, predictable, expected. It is the life everyone sees — the one I committed to, the one I uphold with quiet duty. It is a life of shared responsibilities, routine conversations, and a steady, unshaken existence.
The other?
The other is him.
It exists in stolen moments, in silences that say more than words ever could, in the way my heart beats differently when I see his name on my phone. It is real, but it cannot be spoken. It is love, but it cannot exist.
And yet, I stay. In both lives.
And I carry it.
The Lie I Live So Easily Now
I wonder, sometimes, if it shows.
If my husband sees it in the way my mind drifts mid-conversation. If he notices the weight of my thoughts, the distance that lingers just beyond my reach. If he questions why I take longer to answer a text, why I glance away too quickly when he walks into the room.
Or maybe he doesn’t notice at all.
Maybe this is what marriage becomes — a quiet understanding that neither person asks too many questions. That as long as things look right from the outside, they are right enough.
