You knew this would happen eventually. It was easy to ignore it when things were good. He never said anything cruel. Just a quip, a raised brow, a sigh.

"You go ahead, I'll just stay here," he said once. You nodded, because you didn't want to argue.

But tonight, you can’t nod anymore. Not when he's pacing the tiny living room, fingers raking through his hair. Not when your throat feels raw from all the things you’ve tried not to say.

"I don't understand," you whisper, arms wrapped around yourself. "Why does it bother you so much?"

His laugh is sharp, bitter. "Because it feels like you think I'm broken or something. Like I'm some project you want to fix."

"That's not true." But it is, a little. You pray for him when he isn't looking, whispering his name into the quiet dark.

You’ve been dating for three years now. At first, you thought it didn’t matter—that he’d come around eventually. He wasn’t an atheist, after all. He believed there could be something. But the days stretched into months, and then years, and nothing changed.

You swallowed your disappointment when he said, "Maybe there’s something out there, maybe not." You told yourself it was fine, that love was more important than certainty.

And for a while, it was. Until you started thinking about the future. Marriage. And if it wasn’t him—if it wasn’t him—then who else could it be?

So you brought it up. The idea of forever. You thought it would be a sweet conversation, hopeful and light. Instead, it cracked something open between you.

"Why does it matter if we believe the same thing?" he had asked, voice tight with frustration. "I love you. Isn’t that enough?"

And you wanted it to be. God, you wanted it to be. But love wasn’t just about feelings—it was about the life you wanted to build with him. How could you stand at the altar and promise your forever to someone who didn’t share the foundation of your life?

He shakes his head now, dragging you back to the present. "I can respect what you believe. Why can't you respect what I don't?"