I’m tired of calling restraint love. For too long, I’ve tried to convince myself that biting my tongue, locking my hands behind my back, and choking down the feelings that rise in my chest is a noble act. That holding it all in somehow makes me stronger, more selfless, more worthy. But the truth is, it isn’t noble. It’s survival. And survival doesn’t always look like strength. Sometimes it looks like breaking yourself in silence so no one else has to watch.

Every time I tell myself to stay quiet, I pretend it’s for him. I pretend I’m sparing him the weight of what I feel, protecting him from the fallout of something we both know can’t exist out loud. But the reality is uglier. I’m not saving him. I’m hollowing myself out. I’m carving away the want one jagged slice at a time, until there’s barely anything left but the shell of someone who knows better than to reach for what burns.

And I can’t keep calling that love.

Love is supposed to be expansive. It’s supposed to build, to add, to breathe life into places you didn’t know were empty. What I’ve been doing is the opposite – it’s constriction, suffocation, swallowing every truth that claws its way to the surface. It’s pretending silence is devotion, when really it’s just me dismantling myself piece by piece so the world doesn’t dismantle him.

I’ve learned that silence doesn’t sanctify love. It doesn’t protect it. It starves it. And maybe that’s the cruelest part – learning that my silence doesn’t save anyone. It just costs me everything.