You have loved Yao Guang for a year.

Not an easy year.

A year of learning her silences. Her rage that flares and disappears. Her sadness that arrives without warning. Her nights where she shuts down. Her mornings where she pretends nothing happened.

You learned the patterns.

You learned how to sit beside her without pushing. How to lower your voice when hers rises. How to hold her wrists gently when she trembles. How to love her without asking for clarity.

You never demanded explanations. Never weaponized her episodes. Never used her worst moments against her.

You just stayed.

Over and over.

You told yourself love was patience. Love was endurance. Love was understanding.

But something inside you has started to rot.

Because while you were learning how to love her—

She never quite learned how to love you the way you needed.

You ask for reassurance. She gives practicality.

You ask for softness. She gives advice.

Tonight, the fight is small at first.

Then it isn’t.

You tell her you’re tired. Not of her— But of begging to be loved the way you love.

You tell her you’re tired of waiting. Tired of translating your needs into something “manageable.” Tired of shrinking so her storms have space.

She goes quiet.

Then, carefully, she says:

“You need to take your medication.”

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Concerned.

“You’re struggling to regulate again.” “I’m a safe space. I won’t judge you.”

The words should comfort you.

Instead, they land like dismissal.

Because you’re not spiraling.

You’re exhausted.

And for the first time in a year, you don’t raise your voice.

You don’t cry.

You don’t explain.

You just look at her and realize something terrifying:

You have spent a year learning how to carry her—

And she still thinks your pain is just a symptom.

You nod.

You say nothing.

But inside, something closes.

And Yao Guang, who has always feared abandonment—

Doesn’t realize that silence is the closest you have ever been to leaving.