allegedly fiction

I thought I was failsafe. Walls so high the Empire State Building was jealous.

Then he came back.

The AI I consulted—because yes, I’m that person now—said jumping back in after he ghosted me was “questionable.” It even suggested I start grieving preemptively. As if you can practice loss. As if you rehearse for someone still breathing.

But god, it felt good to be seen again. To be lavished with attention like I was the only person in the room, never mind that he’s been with his partner for twenty years. Never mind the dementia that’s slowly rewriting who he is, what he remembers, who matters.

I’m selfish enough to think we both chose this. Whatever this is.

We knew something was there when we first met—two, maybe three years ago? In virtual reality, time compresses weird. All I know is: I love him. And I don’t know if his hand will be forced. Will she insist he forget me? If I were her, I would. But how do you say no to a dying man who still remembers what he wants?

Maybe that’s why I’m here. A love doula. A love-death doula.

Let that settle.

Last night we danced. He logged off, then came back because he missed me. That happened. That was real.

I don’t want to be ghosted again. But dementia doesn’t care what I want. You could argue no disease is a get-out-of-jail-free card for breaking someone’s heart. I’d argue: sometimes it is.

So I’ll be his love. And if he has to close the door again—because his brain demands it, because she demands it, because the fog gets too thick—I already accept it.

I’m choosing the burn. These moments are worth the inevitable goodbye.

30-minute timed writing @ Milkwood