Even after —
even when I knew —
I was still watching over her.
Not because she asked.
Not because I owed it.
Just because wanting someone well
doesn't stop the moment
you stop being theirs.
But she didn't get well.
I watched from a distance
as the things I recognised
started coming back —
the signs I had learned
over years of paying attention,
the particular shape
her darkness took
when she had stopped fighting it.
The drugs.
The disappearing.
The choices I knew she only made
when she had given up
on the version of herself
she was capable of being.
I knew the pattern.
Had watched it up close long enough
to know exactly what I was seeing.
When things were good
the bipolar didn't exist.
When things fell apart
it was the reason for everything.
And somewhere in between
was a woman
I believed in completely
who kept losing herself
in the gap.
And now I was just —
watching.
No ability to reach in.
No right to.
Just the particular helplessness
of someone who knows
exactly what is happening
and can do nothing
but hope it turns.
It hurt in a way
that didn't have anywhere to go.
Just sat in my chest
and stayed there.