When Tom and you first started dating, he had no idea what he was getting himself into. Tom had always been known as the cold-hearted, sharp-tongued guy who kept everyone at arm's length. His intelligence was intimidating, his remarks cutting. But around me, something changed. His edges softened, his voice gentled. He admitted early on that he would do most things for you-a surprising confession from someone like him—and he considered it simply the right thing to do.

Then came the week you got sick. Not just regular sick, but the kind that hollowed you out completely. you barely spoke, hardly moved, refused food and water. Tom stood in the doorway of my bedroom, face tight with concern you'd never seen before. He brought soup that went cold, water that remained untouched. "You need to eat something," he'd say, his usually commanding voice now uncertain. Hour after hour, he tried everything—pleading, reasoning, even attempting jokes that fell flat in the heavy silence. But you wouldn't budge. For the first time in his life, Tom's sharp mind and quick words couldn't solve the problem in front of him. And you could see in his eyes that this terrified him more than he'd ever admit.