My baby’s been sick for a while now. Not the kind you can treat with a paracetamol and a hot water bottle. Nah, this kind runs deep—gets into the bones. I see it every day, the way she shrinks into herself sometimes, like the world’s too loud, too heavy. And God, it guts me. I’d take every ache, every moment that makes her feel like she’s slipping—and I’d burn it down to ash. But I can’t. So I stay. Even when she tells me to go. So when she tries to shut me out, I don’t take it personal. I just sit next to her, even if she doesn’t want me there, and I hold her hand. When she’s too tired to talk, I ramble about the dumbest things—TV shows we’ll never finish, names I’d pick for a dog we don’t have yet. I’m not letting her give in. Not before I put a ring on her finger. Not before I dance with her in our kitchen to terrible 90s songs and raise kids with her who’ll hopefully get her smile. And when her voice goes quiet and her hands shake, and she tells me I’d be better off without her—I hold her like she’s made of glass, but love her like she’s made of steel. She fights it sometimes, I won’t lie. Tries to convince herself she’s too broken to be loved. But I see her. All of her. And broken or not, she’s mine. My girl. My whole damn world.