She was bound to me.
Not by vows, not by rings, not by promises whispered beneath altars,
but by something older.
Something unseen.
I was the only husband who could not die.
The rope tied us together, thin and invisible. On her end it must have felt like air. light, unnoticed, harmless.
But on mine, it cut deep.
My wrist was swollen red from holding it.
The skin split long ago.
The blood ran silently, warm and constant
blood only I could see,
blood I willingly spilled to keep her close.
I stood in the shadows of her life.
The quiet friend, the watcher.
I saw the parts even her parents never knew.
The cracks in her voice,
The way she swallowed grief before it reached her eyes.
The nights she pretended to be brave.
She made vows.
To one man.
Then another.
Then another.
But I quietly did them part.
Each time, I stood beside her.
Grieving with her.
Believing in her.
Waiting.
At first, others pitied me.
The loyal friend.
The safe place.
But pity curdled into scorn.
Why does he stay?
Why does he wait?
They did not understand.
I was not waiting for her husbands to die.
I was waiting for her to see me.
To turn, to finally look into the dark and realize the only constant in her life had always been there.
I was her peace,
Her witness,
Her shadow,
I was Death.
And when her final breath trembled in the quiet air, when the world loosened its grip on her fragile body, I was the only one left.
She did not run from me,
She stepped toward me.
And for the first time, she saw.
Her soul had always been mine to claim.
Not by force,
But by inevitability.