Fear, Distance, and Suspicion

There are hurts that come from injury, and then there are hurts that come from the quiet in between words.

After the fall, something shifted — not just in my body, but between us.

He was there.
Physically present.
Moving through days beside me.

But emotionally…
he felt further and further away, like someone slowly fading into fog.

At first, I told myself it was stress.
Life.
Timing.
Anything but distance.

I tried to stay calm.
Logical.
Reasonable.

But pain has a way of making everything louder.
Every silence.
Every missed check-in.
Every moment where I needed warmth and got coolness instead.

I started reaching for reassurance,
not because I wanted control —
but because I wanted us.

I needed to feel secure.
Held.
Chosen.
Loved without conditions or limits or scoreboard.

Instead, I felt like I was knocking on a door I used to have a key to.

And when the answers didn’t come…
my mind went searching for them.

Not because I wanted to catch him doing anything.
God — that’s the last thing I ever wanted.

I didn’t want proof.

I wanted safety.

I wanted us.

But fear is sneaky.
It doesn’t announce itself with sirens — it creeps in, like shadows slipping under the door.

It starts as a whisper:

“Why does he feel so far away?”

Then grows:

“Did I do something?”

And eventually becomes heavy:

“Am I losing him?”

I didn’t want to doubt him.
I didn’t want to doubt us.

I just wanted to feel like I still mattered.