Did you know that I still see you everyday? I see you walk in the same rhythms that you did before. It repeats and repeats and repeats. You walk from the bedroom, to the kitchen, to the shower, and back to the bedroom. I see you try to eat. I see you try to take a shower. The same day skipping like a broken record—scratched.

It reminds me of when you were sick. Do you remember that? You could barely function at all, and it broke my heart to see you like that. I tried to take care of you. Make you food when you struggled to even get to the fridge. Wash you down in the tub when standing in the shower was too much. But you refused back then. Sometimes you would give in, when things got really bad or you got just too hungry to argue, but you would always say “I don’t want to be a burden.” 

Do you remember what I would say back? “You aren’t a burden.” It was true. You’ve never been a burden to me or to anyone. And I meant that. Anyone who would have talked to and told you would have said the same. But you were convinced it was just empty platitudes, a sense of obligation, not love. Not when you were sick.

In the mornings, I see your silhouette. The light shines in through the doorway, and your body carves a faint shadow. I see it staring into the room, still, before a struggled breath and you move on. I swear sometimes you must see me, but your behavior never changes. From the bedroom, to the kitchen, to the bathroom, and then back.

Sometimes I try to reach out. I’ll call to you, say your name. I’ll beg for you to see me. I’ll scream and shout.

But you walk right through me.

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