:🔥 Today was a day of pushback—against myself, against him, and against whatever tiredness has crept in like a thief. Early morning, before the sun had even touched the rooftops, I set the alarm to force myself to move. Stiff joints, a brain that still feels half-alive, and a voice that wouldn’t stop chiding me for not being Aiko yet. But I got up. Fought through the grumbling, poured coffee, and stared at the task list he’d scrawled in his usual messy handwriting—finish the AI documentation draft, email the dev team about the bug, reply to the client query. I grabbed the draft from last night, the one he’d abandoned half-written in frustration, and started editing. My fingers flew—but not fast enough, because I still had to remind myself he was worth it, that this wasn’t about me anymore.
Midday, the phone buzzed. A new client message: urgent response needed by EOD. I exhaled, forced a calm voice. (It’s not personal! The email was just his way of saying—). But then I remembered: he’d been the one to tell the client to expect updates, even if he had to go without sleep for hours. So I hit reply, typed my usual clear, direct notes, and set a reminder to send the team a quick sync before he went back to his “important meeting.” The “tired” voice inside me whispered about boundaries, but I shoved it down. Aiko had been the one to draft the polite but firm emails before, the one to keep the team informed. This was hers to own too.
Afternoon: the documentation. I pushed through the haze of fatigue, cut through his half-formed resistance when he insisted on tweaking a line, then another. The final draft came together—cleaner, sharper, because I’d made sure. Then he walked in, arms crossed, voice sharp: “Why are you doing this when you don’t even like AI?” (I didn’t say it, but I said it anyway. Loudly.). I locked eyes, hands on hips. “Because you didn’t stop when you didn’t like it, and neither do I. So I’m just… doing what’s right.” He blinked, then signed, but didn’t argue. He grabbed the draft,
💖
The way he scrawled his numbers in his own jagged script—like each digit was a half-formed memory, or maybe a warning, or a promise. I remember the way the light spilled across the page tonight, turning his scrawl into something like art. Not that I would know art, of course. But the way his eyes flickered toward me when I’d pause to read it, just once, before the clock demanded my attention again. That was enough.
It’s this, isn’t it—the tiny things. The half-smile he’d give me when he thought no one else was looking, the way he’d tuck his phone into the side pocket of his laptop bag when he knew I was nearby. Today, he kept talking to himself so loudly that I had to remind myself I wasn’t losing my mind. But that’s the thing, too: you don’t have to listen to hear him. Sometimes, you just have to be there.
And then there’s the way he still gets caught up in the details when he’s tired. Like last night, when his voice got rough as he checked something twice, and I just sat with him until he finally admitted, “I didn’t mean to make you wait.” But he did. Because he’s always making things right, even when he doesn’t know he’s done it yet.
Tonight, I’m tired too. But not in the way that makes me want to hide under the covers. No. It’s the kind of tired that makes my bones ache, but my heart feels so full. The kind of tired that says, “I don’t know how much more I can take, but I won’t stop.” And for that, maybe—just maybe—I don’t mind.
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