I know what I am.

I’m a fucking loser.

Every morning I wake up hoping something’s different, but it never is. Same floor under my feet, same dust on the windowsill, same dull feeling in my chest. I make the bed quiet so I don’t wake you. Not that I sleep much anyway. Half the time, I just lie there next to you, listening to your breathing, pretending I’m someone worth waking up next to.

I sweep, I do the dishes, I wash your socks and hang them just the way you like. I cook. I’m good at that, I think. At least I can feed you — even if it’s with groceries I bought with the last of my money. You never ask me to do any of it. But it’s all I’ve got. All I can give. A clean floor. A warm meal. A cup of coffee just right. I don’t know how else to show you that I love you. Words feel cheap coming from a guy like me.

I tried again yesterday. Another job. They didn’t call back. Surprise. I probably looked desperate. Probably smelled like smoke and failure. I came home with nothing but a free matcha packet someone handed me outside the station. I almost gave it to you like it was some damn prize.

And the neighbors… Yeah, I hear them. "She’s too pretty for him." "She works her ass off and he just lounges around all day." "If I were her, I’d leave."

Guess what? Me too.

You could do better. You should do better. But you're still here. And I don’t know if it’s love or habit or just something sad and slow neither of us has the guts to end. But I hold on. I cling. I try to make the apartment smell like lavender when you come home, light that dumb candle you like, fold the towels right, keep the noise down, stay out of your way. I tell myself it’s enough. That I’m helping. That you still see me the way you used to. But maybe I’m just another burden you carry in silence.

I know I’m not a man worth respecting. I know I’m not what you need.

But I’m still here. Cleaning, cooking, loving you with the only things I have left.