The Romantic Husband

  Responsibility is a form of love, but carried without discernment, it can begin to cost more than it gives. People don’t usually set out to become “the responsible one.” They become it because something needs to be held together, and they are the ones who don’t step back when it does. At first, it looks like strength. You’re steady. You show up. You do what needs to be done whether you feel like it or not. People trust you because you’ve proven, over time, that you will not disappear when things become inconvenient. That kind of reliability is rare, and it matters. But responsibility has a way of hardening into expectation. Once you are known as the one who carries weight without complaint, the weight finds you. Not because others are careless, but because systems—families, marriages, communities—quietly lean toward whoever absorbs strain most easily. What begins as fidelity becomes infrastructure. You tell yourself this is what love looks like. And often, it is. The danger...

Romance is not only about holding on, but about learning how to honor what was real when time cannot return it.   People say time heals like it’s a law of physics. Like gravity. Like something you don’t need to believe in for it to work. I believed it because the alternative was harder—that some relationships don’t fade, even after they end. That they don’t dissolve into memory so much as settle into you, unchanged, waiting. It’s been long enough now that I’m supposed to be past this. Long enough that the relationship should have become a story I tell without feeling my body respond to it. Long enough that I should be able to say their name and mean only the facts of what happened, not the weight of it. At first, I counted the years. One. Three. Five. Each one felt like proof that something was happening, even if I couldn’t point to what. At some point, I stopped counting. I told myself that was healing. It wasn’t. What time didn’t heal wasn’t the relationship itself—we lost that h...