I haven’t posted in a while.

Not because things have gotten better, but because I was afraid I was trauma dumping. There’s this guilt I carry, that sharing too much of the dark makes people turn away, that the more I say, the heavier it becomes not just for me, but for anyone reading. But silence has weight too. And lately, it’s been pressing hard on my chest at 2 a.m.

Most nights I wake up between 1 and 3 a.m. — a window that has become the loneliest part of my day. It doesn’t matter if I’ve taken something to help me sleep or if I crawled into bed physically exhausted. That hour always finds me. Wide awake. Staring at the ceiling. Thinking of him.

I lie there replaying conversations. Re-reading old texts. Wondering where exactly it all broke open. Wondering if he’s okay, if he dreams in that hospital bed, if he knows how loved he is, if he even wants to be here at all.

He’s still hospitalized. It’s been weeks now. And while some days bring tiny shifts, like a softer tone in his voice or a longer pause before he shuts down, many days feel the same – heavy, gray, still. Now, the doctors are referring him for ECT therapy. Electroconvulsive therapy. A word that scares me and comforts me all at once. Scares me because it feels like we’re standing at the edge of a last resort. Comforts me because at least something is being done. It means they haven’t given up.

But here’s what I haven’t said out loud until now: I feel like a woman holding on to a man who is letting go.

He’s not letting go of me in some angry or distant way. He still tells me he loves me, though sometimes it comes out hollow, like he’s remembering something he used to believe. He still asks about our dogs. Still mentions little things from our life together. But there’s a weight behind his eyes, even through the phone, that I can’t reach.

I’m holding on as tight as I can. I advocate when I must. I remind him of the life we built, the life we still could have. I hold on to his laugh, to the way his glasses would get cattywampus when he fell asleep with them on, and to the way he always looked at me with love and adoration. Oh, I want my life back, I want my husband back!

But I can feel the pull. The quiet resistance. Like I’m gripping the end of a rope that’s slowly slipping through my fingers, not because he wants to hurt me, but because his own pain has convinced him that letting go would hurt less.

There’s no guidebook for this. No one tells you what it’s like to love someone who is trying to leave this world. No one tells you how exhausting it is to keep showing up, to keep hoping, to keep holding space for someone who’s not sure they want to be here.

And no one tells you how lonely it feels.

The world moves on outside my window. People laugh, post pictures, plan summer vacations. Meanwhile, I sit in a quiet house where the silence feels like it has weight. Where every sound, the ticking of the clock, the hum of the fridge, feels louder than it should. I go through the motions, but nothing feels real. It’s like I’m living in a paused moment while everything else keeps fast-forwarding.

I don’t have a neat way to end this post. No silver lining or tied-up message of hope. Just this: I’m still here. Still holding on. Still loving someone who’s struggling to love himself.

If you’re in the dark too, if you’re holding on while someone you love slips further away, I see you. I feel you. And I’m standing beside you, even if we’ve never met.