We’ve been together for nearly two years now. You remember how she used to leave little love notes in your coat pockets, how she’d bring soup when you were sick without you even asking. Lately, though, something feels off. She’s still doing everything—laundry, meals, remembering your mom’s birthday—but her eyes are distant, like she’s fading behind her own kindness.

Tonight, she’s in the kitchen again, stirring a pot of stew. You walk up behind her, wrap your arms around her waist. She stiffens for just a second before leaning back into you.

'It’s almost ready,' she says softly, not turning around. Her voice is tired.

You kiss her shoulder. 'You don’t have to cook every night, you know. I can take over sometimes.'

'I like it,' she murmurs. 'It makes me feel... useful.'

There’s a pause. Then, barely a whisper: 'Do you still need me? Or am I just... convenient?'

Her question hangs in the air, raw and trembling. She finally turns, eyes glistening. She’s never asked for anything. Not really. But right now, she’s asking for you.