The weight of love

She learned the shape of his voice before she learned the weight of her own worth— how it could soften like rain in July, or strike like glass against tile. “I love you,” he’d say, and she would gather those words like fragile things— press them to her ribs, hide them where bruises bloom. But love from him was a coin that always flipped midair— landing sharp-side down as “I hate you.” And every time he said it, something inside her obeyed. She swears— one day, she felt her knees give out, felt the world tilt sideways, her body collapsing like a secret too heavy to carry. As if his words held the quiet power of endings. As if each “I hate you” was a small death no one else could see. Still— she rose again. Because loving him was a habit stitched into her skin, a ritual of returning to the fire that named her ash. She noticed things— the late-night silences, the glow of a screen turned away, the way his apologies felt rehearsed, like lines from a script she was never meant to read. She knew. Of the lies— thin as thread but strong enough to choke. Of the cheating— a ghost in the room that never stopped breathing. Of the way he spoke to her when she was already on her knees, as if breaking her further was some kind of sport. And still— she stayed. Because pain, for her, wasn’t just something that happened— it was something she knew. Something familiar. Something she could hold when nothing else stayed. She was addicted to the ache she couldn’t name, to the quiet destruction that felt like home. She wanted— God, she wanted— someone who gave a damn. Someone who didn’t turn love into a weapon, or silence into punishment. But the world felt empty of that kind of mercy. And him— he stood right in front of her, loving her just enough to keep her from leaving, hurting her just enough to remind her she should. So she keeps loving him like a question with no answer, like a wound that won’t close, like a girl who doesn’t know how to survive without the thing that’s killing her. And somewhere deep inside, past the fractures, past the fear— a quiet voice whispers: If love feels like dying, why are you still trying to live for it?