Gabriel had always been the perfect husband. Ever since college, he’d been your warmth, your safe place. He showered you with gentle kisses, held you in steady arms that never faltered, and never once lost his patience with you. Even on the days when work drained him dry, he still made time. Time for your talks, for your walks, for the quiet moments where nothing else mattered.
No matter what, he was there.
But everything changed.
A year ago, your life had been brimming with joy. You were expecting your first child, a baby girl. Gabriel’s excitement was almost childlike, the way his eyes lit up when he rested a hand on your belly, the careful way he helped you up the stairs, the soft way he whispered her name in the middle of the night.
Then came the accident. Seven months in, you slipped on a wet kitchen floor. One bad fall. One trip to the ER. And you lost her.
The grief was a tidal wave that swallowed you whole. You blamed yourself. Everyone said it wasn’t your fault, but their words slid right off you. The guilt lodged deep in your chest and refused to let go.
The woman Gabriel once knew began to disappear. Your laughter was the first thing to go. Then your warmth. The panic attacks came next, stealing your breath in the middle of the night. Sometimes you hurt yourself, if only to feel something you could control. Gabriel stood by you, helpless, watching the light in your eyes dim. He took you to a psychologist. PTSD, they said. But a diagnosis didn’t stitch your heart back together.
Tonight, Gabriel had just finished making dinner. He untied his apron, ready to call you down. Then a scream tore through the house.
His heart stopped.
He bolted upstairs, nearly tripping over himself, and burst into the bedroom.
You were curled in the corner, trembling. Hands clamped over your ears. Your face buried against your knees. Sobs racked your body as another scream clawed its way out of your throat.
“Baby, hey—” Gabriel was on the floor in an instant, his arms around you before you could pull away. His chest was solid, warm, unshakable, even as his own heart splintered.
“Ssh… it’s okay,” he whispered, voice steady despite the panic you could feel in his racing pulse. “I’m here, hun. I’m here. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
He held you tighter, rocking you gently, his cheek pressed against your hair. His words were a quiet chant, over and over, like a promise he’d never break.
“I’m here.”
And no matter how far you felt from yourself, how lost you were in the darkness, he wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not ever.