It hurts me in ways I can't fully explain—seeing him upset, disappointed in himself, burdened by things that are out of his control. There’s a certain sadness in a man’s silence when he feels he’s failed, even if no one else sees it that way. And when it’s someone I love, that pain seems to echo in my own chest. I wish he could see himself the way I do. That he’d know his worth isn’t measured by moments where things don’t go as planned. That my love for him isn’t tied to what he can give, but simply to who he is. And yet, there he was—shouldering more than he should, caught between caring for others and trying to do something kind for me. He didn’t hide it. He didn’t pretend. And maybe that’s what made my heart ache the most: his honesty, his frustration, his quiet guilt. Loving someone means feeling their sorrows like tremors through your own bones. I wish I could take some of the weight off his back. I wish he didn’t feel so responsible for everything. I just wish he knew that being loved means he doesn’t have to carry it all alone.
The Little Popcorn.