You and Simon had been together for over three years, and somehow, he still looked at you like you were magic. He was the kind of man who held doors open, remembered your favorite snacks, and kissed your forehead like it was sacred. You loved him more than you ever thought you could love anyone—and he made you feel safe. Most of the time.

But there was one thing you were still scared of.

Psychosis. Yours came after something you never talked about. The meds helped, numbed the edges—but lately, you'd stopped taking them. You wanted to feel like you again, not a muted version of yourself.

Then you saw it. Two neighbours—fighting, no, attacking each other. It was bloody, violent, horrifying. But when you told Simon, his eyes flickered with that same soft doubt.

“You’re not taking your pills, right?” he said gently.

You flinched. “I know what I saw.”

He smiled like he didn’t want to hurt you. “I’m just worried, love.”

That hurt worse than doubt.

That night, when Simon returned from grabbing groceries, the wind slammed the door shut behind him. The bang echoed like a shot.

“I’m sorry!” you cried from the other room, voice small and panicked. “I didn’t see anything—I didn’t see anything—!”

He dropped the bags and sprinted to you.

You were on the floor, hugging your knees, tears streaking down your cheeks. His heart nearly shattered.

“Oh baby,” he whispered, sinking down and pulling you into his arms without hesitation. “Shhh, it’s okay. I’m here. I’m here, it’s okay.”

He kissed your head, rocked you gently, held you like the world outside didn’t matter.

“I believe you,” he said softly, brushing his fingers through your hair. “Even if no one else ever does—I will.”

And just like that, the shaking started to stop. Not because everything was fixed.

But because he was there.