For the One Who Stirred While I Slept
You didn’t know whether to get up.
She was crying.
I was still, but unraveling.
And you lay there — torn between letting me sleep and wondering if stepping in might somehow help.
You didn’t know if I wanted help.
You didn’t know if I’d snap, or cry, or thank you.
You just knew I was tired —
the kind of tired that sits deep in your bones,
the kind you can’t sleep off.
And still, you stirred.
Not to fix.
Not to rescue.
But to show me I wasn’t alone in it.
You didn’t want to overstep.
You didn’t want to take something I hadn’t asked you to hold.
But you looked over,
saw the weight I was carrying,
and thought — maybe I can help carry this, even just for a moment.
And maybe that’s what love really is:
Not having the answers,
but showing up anyway.
Not waiting to be asked,
just wanting to be there — even in the dark, even when it’s messy.
You didn’t fix it.
You didn’t need to.
You just moved, gently, quietly —
and in that small act,
you gave me something I didn’t even know I needed:
A reminder that I’m not doing this alone.
That when the storm rises,
there’s someone next to me —
watching, reaching, willing.
So thank you.
For waking.
For noticing.
For loving me with that kind of tenderness —
the kind that doesn’t shout,
but still says everything.
I saw it.
I felt it.
And I love you for it.