I used to believe I had to shout.
Nag.
Punish.
Withhold.
Withdraw.
I used to think:
“If I don’t say it louder, he’ll never hear me.”
But it was never about hearing.
Because he sees me.
He always did.
Not in the way I thought I wanted.
Not with words.
Not with flowers.
Not with daily check-ins.
But with the quiet noticing of a man who has stayed for twenty years.
I thought I needed to be heard,
but a placed man sees.
It’s quieter.
It’s less obvious.
It’s more powerful.
He sees the sore shoulder I never mentioned.
He sees my face tired.
He sees my tea unfinished.
He sees when I hold the steering wheel tight.
He sees when I’m pulling away.
He sees when I’m too proud to ask for help.
He sees when I blame him,
not because he broke anything,
but because I am breaking.
It’s why he still calls me "wife".
Not BB.
Not darling.
Not babe.
Wife.
An anchor.
A placement.
A knowing.
He knows:
He is already mine.
He knows:
I'm already his.
He knows:
I’m already home.
He knows:
No other body.
No other touch.
No other woman could ever displace me,
because I harbour him,
and he rests in me.
The bond was forged in a thousand small moments
when I thought he wasn’t listening.
But all along
he saw me.
He sees me still.
And now,
I see him.
I see him,
seeing me,
creating me,
holding me.