When The Storm Hit

It happened on a quiet day.

The kind of day that makes you forget

how quickly peace can disappear.

Light danced through the curtains like everything was safe—

but safety is a myth

when the body becomes a battlefield.

He dropped.

Like thunder with no warning.

The way glass breaks before you know it’s been hit.

His mouth called my name—

but by the time I turned,

his eyes were already gone.

And I—

I shattered.

I held him.

Not to save him—

because I couldn’t.

But because my hands didn’t know what else to do.

I whispered his name

like maybe it could be a bridge back to me.

But he was locked in the seizure’s grip,

a storm with no mercy,

and no map home.

Time warped.

Each second stretched like skin over bone.

I begged God with a voice that cracked mid-prayer—

“Don’t take him.

Not like this.

Not in front of me.”

His limbs jerked.

His face turned a color I never want to name.

And then—

he went still.

And in that stillness,

my world stopped.

My breath held its own funeral.

I thought:

“This is it.”

But it wasn’t.

He came back.

Not whole.

Not present.

But alive.

And that…

was everything.

I cried in pieces.

Like the rain knew my body couldn’t hold it all.

Like grief didn’t need permission

to pour out of me.

⸻

Hours passed.

He doesn’t remember.

But I do.

I carry the weight of those minutes

like stones in my bloodstream.

I remember the sound of my name in his voice

before it disappeared.

I remember the silence after.

And worse than all of it—

I remember the whisper in my own head:

“What if I can’t do this again?”

Guilt.

That sticky, heavy kind

that doesn’t cry—it sinks.

Because what kind of love

thinks of leaving

while their person is dying on the floor?

But I didn’t leave.

I stayed.

I always stay.

Because love is not measured in what we feel—

but in what we do

when the sky falls without warning.

⸻

I’ve watched him

fight a war inside his brain

with no sword,

no shield,

and still offer me a smile

like I’m the one who’s brave.

And maybe that’s what hope is.

Not a bright beam—

but a flicker

that refuses to be put out.

Some days I am his anchor.

Some days, he is mine.

We are not fragile.

We are forged.

We are the kind of love

that survives the lightning.

We are the kind of light

that keeps shining,

even when the storm doesn’t end.