Fife woke in the middle of the night with that same familiar despair.
It had lingered for so long, it no longer startled her—it simply stayed.
A quiet, stubborn feeling she could neither name nor escape.
She had lost too much.
Her fiancé—to the cold hands of death.
Her father. Her mother.
Her best friend—one by one, taken by the same silent force.
Grief no longer frightened her.
It had become something else—
a companion,
a shadow she had learned to live with.
The pain.
The loneliness.
The uncertainty of each unfolding day.
And somewhere between surviving and remembering,
questions began to grow.
Questions she wanted answers to—
and at the same time, feared hearing.
Questions not just for herself,
but for love itself.
For what it means.
For what it endures.
⸻
“What would it be?” Fife whispers,
thinking of the man she once called hers.
Would you still love me…
if I had one eye?
if my body was no longer whole?
if I looked nothing like the woman you chose?
Would you still love me…
if I kept breaking myself?
if there was no space left for you inside me?
I mean—
Would you love me
if I betrayed you?
if I couldn’t love you back?
if I denied you before the world?
if my words became cruel enough to wound you?
Would you still love me
if I could no longer stand,
no longer walk,
no longer be who I once was?
⸻
I wonder…
Would you love me
if I could not show it?
if I forgot how to care?
if I lost my mind, my senses—
piece by piece?
Would you love me
when everything turns against me?
when life collapses in on itself?
when I become nothing more than a body
without light?
⸻
These questions stay with me.
Not exaggerated—
just honest.
I search for answers,
yet I resist them.
Because if love is truly what we claim it to be,
then maybe…
it answers itself.
⸻
Fife exhales softly.
“I wish you were here, my love.
Maybe then…
these questions would feel lighter.
Or maybe…
I wouldn’t need to ask them at all.”
⸻
These are my Would You questions.
And I only hope—
you are listening.
⸻
From your love,
Fife ❤️🪽
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