You’re Married to a Nightmare

You don’t call it that.

Not out loud.

You call it stress,

a rough patch,

something every couple goes through

if they just try hard enough.

Because nightmares

aren’t supposed to wear a ring,

aren’t supposed to sit across from you

at the same table

and ask how your day was

like everything is fine.

But this one does.

It smiles

when people are watching.

Speaks gently

in rooms that echo.

Knows exactly

how to look like love

from a distance.

And you—

you’ve learned the choreography.

When to stay quiet.

When to soften.

When to shrink yourself

just enough

to keep the peace

from breaking open.

You measure your words

like they could detonate.

You swallow reactions

before they reach your mouth.

You become careful

in ways that don’t feel like you anymore.

And still—

it’s never quite enough.

There’s always a shift.

A tone.

A silence

that stretches too long.

Something small

that turns into something bigger

before you can stop it.

So you adjust again.

Call it compromise.

Call it patience.

Call it love.

Anything

but what it feels like

when the lights go out

and you’re left alone

with the version of this

no one else sees.

Because how do you explain

that the person

you promised forever to

is the same one

you brace yourself for?

How do you leave

something that still

looks like a life

from the outside?

So you stay.

Not because it’s easy—

but because it’s complicated,

and untangling it

feels heavier

than carrying it.

But deep down,

beneath all the reasons

you’ve built to justify it—

you know.

Love isn’t supposed

to feel like survival.