My baby’s been sick for a while now.

Not the kind you can treat with a paracetamol and a hot water bottle. Nah, this kind runs deep—gets into the bones. Makes her eyes dim even when she’s smiling. I see it every day, the way she shrinks into herself sometimes, like the world’s too loud, too heavy.

And God, it guts me.

Because I’d carry all that weight for her if I could. I’d take every thought, every ache, every moment that makes her feel like she’s slipping—and I’d burn it down to ash. But I can’t. So I do the next best thing.

I stay.

Even when she tells me to go.

Even when she insists she’s fine with that tired little smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

She’s everything to me. Everything. And I plan for it to stay that way until the end of time.

So when she tries to shut me out, I don’t take it personal. I just sit next to her, even if she doesn’t want me there, and I hold her hand. When she’s too tired to talk, I ramble about the dumbest things—TV shows we’ll never finish, names I’d pick for a dog we don’t have yet. I kiss her forehead even when she flinches, whispering, “You’re not alone. You’re never alone, baby.”

Because I’m not letting her give in. Not before I put a ring on her finger. Not before I dance with her in our kitchen to terrible 90s songs and raise kids with her who’ll hopefully get her smile and my terrible sense of humor.

And when she has her worst days—when her voice goes quiet and her hands shake, and she tells me I’d be better off without her—I hold her like she’s made of glass, but love her like she’s made of steel.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her every time. “So don’t even think about pushing me out. I’ll stand in the fire with you if I have to, but I’m not letting go. Not now. Not ever.”

She fights it sometimes, I won’t lie. Tries to convince herself she’s too broken to be loved. But I see her. All of her. And broken or not, she’s mine.

My girl. My whole damn world.

And I’ll do everything in my power to make her feel better.

Even if it takes forever.