Nigel and I have something a lot of people don't–real, honest talk.
We say when we're hurt or tired. We don't pretend everything's perfect because it's not. But we're on the same team, always.
"Us against the world," he says, and I believe him.
Most days, that feels enough.
But sometimes, even when you're fighting side by side, the weight of it all gets to you.
Yesterday was one of those days.
We were curled up on his couch, half-watching a movie, half-joking about how I could never finish a tub of popcorn without getting butter everywhere. It was easy, light. The kind of night that usually leaves me warm inside.
I laughed at something dumb I said, poking at my stomach playfully. "I swear, if I keep eating like this, I'll disappear."
Nigel grinned, leaned over, and said it without a second thought —
"Stop. You aren't that skinny."
He meant it as a joke. Or maybe even as reassurance. But the words hit differently.
I froze.
He didn't know that for years I've fought battles with mirrors and scales. That there are numbers that still haunt me — numbers I chase and avoid at the same time. That I've spent nights wishing I could melt myself smaller just to feel worthy.
And suddenly, that one comment echoed in my chest louder than anything else in the room.
It's not what he said. It's what I heard.
You aren't skinny enough.
You're not enough.
I didn't want to make it a thing. I didn't want to seem sensitive or like I was fishing for compliments. So I smiled a little too hard and looked back at the screen.
Nigel noticed the shift. He mostly does.
"You okay?" he asked, tilting his head toward me.
"Yeah," I said. "Just tired."
He nodded, and we went back to the movie. But inside, I wasn't really watching anymore. I was spiraling in silence.
That night, lying in bed, I kept replaying it. Not because Nigel was cruel — he wasn't. But because sometimes the people who love you forget how fragile you are. They touch a bruise without knowing it's there.
And you don't say anything, because explaining your pain feels heavier than carrying it.
Love isn't just the good parts. It's not just the soft moments or shared playlists or whispered promises. It's also the quiet wars you fight alone, hoping the other person never realizes they started one.
Nigel's still my person.
But sometimes, even the safest people can say something that shatters a little piece of you.
And sometimes, those cracks are where the light starts to get in.
He says something else after, something completely unrelated, but just something that hurts me, he don't know
A single word, which triggers me, laughing mid-sentence like nothing's shifted in the air between us.
But it has. At least for me.
Sometimes Nigel says things—offhand, playful, careless. He doesn't mean to hurt me. But the truth is, some things still stick. Still sting. Even when I wish they wouldn't.
And it's not just what he says. It's what lingers in the space after.
He's only lied to me twice. Just twice.
But both times were enough to make me look for cracks. And some small ones between the lines and word plays , I started reading between lines he didn't even mean to draw. So now, when he plays with words, when he taps on something I've buried deep—I tense. I go quiet.
And Nigel notices, atleast sometimes.
He does.
"Hey," he says, his voice soft, tugging at the silence. "What happened just now?"
I shake my head. "Nothing. I'm fine."
"You're not," he says, more firmly this time. "Talk to me. Don't shut down like that."
Sometimes he pushes. Forces me to speak. Like he's afraid of the silence, or of what it might be hiding. And I try—I really try—to gather the words, to let them come out without shame or weight.
But sometimes, I go quite
Sometimes, he lets it go.
Not because he doesn't care, but because he doesn't want to go there. Because the truth is inconvenient. Heavy. Messy. And he knows I'll drown with it
So tonight, I say nothing.
And he doesn't push.
Maybe we're both tired. Of different things.
He thinks I'm overthinking. I think he's under-feeling. Somewhere in between, our love stretches thin for a moment.
Not broken.
Just... paused.
And maybe that's what hurts the most .....how someone can hold your hand and still not reach you.
We continued talking like nothing happened, laughing and smiling.
But then.
He stood up
"What happened?" I asked in confusion
"Wait" he said "nevermind I have to go"
"Everything's ok?" I asked gently
"Yeah just.... something I'll text you, alright ?" And he left
I stared at the door for a few minutes too long. He's never cold....not with me. Something must've gotten to him.
I sit at silence a bit and then I do what I always do when I don't know what else to do.
I write
But then
My phone Buzzed, it was his text.
"Something triggered me "
Just that ,No explanation .
My fingers hover over the keyboard and I wrote
"It's okay , i understand... I'll be waiting for you"
"Don't" he texted back
"I am here...with you , Always "
He doesn't reply
I leave the message there, unread.
1:30 am
2:26 am
4:41 am
6:00 am
I am still awake
Not crying. Just quite . Still. Unmoving . Like something inside me has paused.
It's not like Nigel doesn't love me. I know he does.
But maybe love isn't about just showing up. Maybe it's also about recognizing when the other person is holding too much alone.
And maybe... I've been holding too much.
I'm tired. Not of him. Not of love.
But of giving every version of myself to someone else and calling it care.