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.
Through the Fog 