Living with Bob wasn’t loud.

That was the first thing people would get wrong.

It wasn’t explosive arguments or slammed doors every night.

It was silence.

Long stretches of it. You would come back from missions exhausted, bruised, wanting something solid to land on — and he’d be sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing like the air itself was speaking to him. Sometimes he’d look at you. Sometimes he wouldn’t.

You’d say, “I’m back.” And he’d nod. Just nod. Not because he didn’t care. But because caring for him felt like holding the sun with bare hands. Too bright. Too much.

At first, you told yourself it was temporary. He carried so much inside him. The weight. The instability. The fear of what he could become.

You understood that. You always tried to understand. But understanding doesn’t warm an empty side of the bed.

There were nights you’d roll over and he wouldn’t be there. Not because he left. Because he didn’t want to risk hurting you in his sleep. Because sometimes the nightmares made him shake.

Because sometimes he said it was “safer” if he stayed in the other room. The first time he slept in the guest bedroom, he didn’t even say anything. You woke up to cold sheets. The second time, he paused at the doorway.

“I don’t trust myself tonight,” he said quietly.

You didn’t ask what that meant. You just nodded.

That was how your arguments worked. They weren’t loud. They were heavy.

Once, after you’d both come back from separate missions, you passed each other in the kitchen like strangers. He looked exhausted. Hollowed out. You were tired of pretending that distance didn’t sting.

“Are we okay?” you asked. He froze. That question hit him harder than accusations ever could. “I’m trying,” he said. It sounded like a confession. Not a reassurance.

Another time, he disappeared for two days after a mission debrief. No note. No message. When he came back, he looked wrecked — eyes rimmed red, shoulders tense like he’d been bracing for something catastrophic.

“You left,” you said quietly.

He stared at you like you’d just accused him of destroying a planet.

“I thought you’d be safer if I wasn’t here.” Safer. That word again. Everything with Bob came down to that. He loved you in a way that felt catastrophic.

Like he was always calculating how much damage he could cause. Like he was waiting for himself to become the villain.

Sometimes the tension wasn’t even between you. It was between him and the version of himself he was terrified of. And you were caught in the middle. There were nights you’d lie in separate rooms, staring at the ceiling, both awake.

Neither of you texting. Neither of you moving. Too afraid to reach out. Too afraid not to. The worst part? When he did let himself be close, it felt like gravity.

He’d hold you like you were the only thing tethering him to the ground. Like if he let go, he’d drift somewhere dark and unreachable.

And that made everything harder. Because how do you leave someone who believes you’re the only thing keeping them human?

How do you stay when loving them feels like slowly disappearing? The arguments weren’t about dishes or jealousy.

They were about existence. About whether he was too dangerous to deserve you. About whether you were strong enough to keep choosing him. Sometimes you ignored each other for days.

Not out of hate.

Out of exhaustion.

Two people trying not to break what little stability they had. And in the quiet of separate bedrooms, separate thoughts, separate fears — You both wondered the same thing. Is love enough when it feels like standing next to a star that might collapse at any moment?

Neither of you ever said it out loud. And that silence was the loudest thing in the room.