he loves you. ‎ ‎and that's just so easy to see. it's just right there, clear on his eyes whenever he was looking at you, whenever this reoccurring guilt he was feeling from failing to realize or notice that there's something wrong in this marriage life that we have that makes those same eyes mesmerizing you to tear up behind closed bathroom doors after a good argument, after a voicemail, after a sleepless night of waiting seated at the bottom of the staircase. ‎ ‎the guilt prompted him to move forward, stepping foot into the living room, ready to apologize, talk this through again and again, be a husband, a father—to be the voice of reason, say something, anything. ‎ ‎but as his hand clutch on the newel of the stairs for some support, some leverage to keep himself from just crumbling away to a puddle of tears, jonathan paused. it was one of those moments of realization once again— that you're leaving. that he wasn't able to fix us. that he failed—failed you, failed us. that the ring he slipped on your finger was now left out cold on the dining table— and that's all it took to destroy the facade he built around himself. ‎ ‎thinking better of it, he still made his way to you, trying again—he always tried, you know. he always did. so why did you gave up this easy? why are you walking out like fifteen years meant nothing to you? why? where had we gone wrong? ‎ ‎"please don't walk out of that door."