Lover, I have married my misery.

It began as all great love stories do-with a whisper in the dark. Soft, intoxicating, a promise wrapped in silk and shadow. Misery came to me like a lover, slipping into my bed when no one was looking, pressing its lips to my forehead, muttering that I was safe. That I was theirs.

At first, I resisted. I told myself this was not love, that I could do better, that happiness was waiting just beyond the horizon. But Misery was patient. It knew I would come crawling back, that I would find comfort in its embrace when the world grew too sharp, too cold, too indifferent. And I did.

Oh, how I did.

I let Misery wrap itself around me, tightening its grip until I could no longer tell where it ended and I began. I let it slip into my bones, lace itself through my veins, make a home in the hollow spaces where my hope used to live. It uttered sweet nothings against my skin— “You don't need them. You don't need anyone but me.”

And I believed it.

People warned me, of course. They told me this was toxic, that I deserved better. But what do they know of love? Of devotion so absolute, so consuming, that it erases everything else?

Misery doesn't abandon me like they do.

Misery doesn't grow tired of my sadness, doesn't flinch at my scars, doesn't demand that I get better. Misery is always here, always waiting, always mine.

So l stopped fighting. I let it consume me, let it press itself against my lips in a kiss so deep it stole my breath. And when the last shred of who l used to be disappeared beneath its weight, I smiled.

Because this is what love is, isn't it?

This is forever.