It started with weakness I couldn't shake.
The kind of tiredness that lives in your bones.
My body was giving up, and I was scared.
I hadn't eaten well in days.
Even walking to the pharmacy felt impossible.
So I called him.
Tried to keep my voice steady, but it cracked anyway.
Told him I wasn't feeling well that I didn't think I could stay alone.
"Can I come over for just three days?" I asked softly.
He replied,
"I'm cranky… I'm not in the mood to have anyone around right now."
I remember how quiet it got after that.
How I sat there, still holding the phone to my ear, even though the call had ended.
Tears started falling before I even realized it.
Not because he said no.
But because even when I was sick, I still wasn't worth the inconvenience.
But a few hours later, he told me to come.
He took me to the diagnostic center.
To the pharmacy.
Helped me through multiple hospital runs.
He paid for everything. Quietly.
No complaints. No delay.
He didn't stay long afterward.
Didn't offer his space.
Didn't ask if I needed help eating, or sleeping, or standing.
He did what needed to be done, nothing more.
People saw that and said,
"He really cares about you."
But I lived it.
I knew the truth.
He followed me…
But wouldn't let me come near.
He paid for my recovery…
But refused to be my shelter.
He stood beside me in public…
But still couldn't make room for me in private.
And the worst part?
I was so touched by his effort,
I almost forgot how unwanted I was.
I held onto the receipts like they meant something.
Held onto the silence, hoping it would turn into softness.
Held onto him, even when I had nothing to hold.