Because I Love You

Because I Love You

by Jen Wentland

Authors note: I’ve always believed the most powerful stories are the quiet ones — the ones about love, loss, and holding on. This piece came from somewhere deep inside me, and I hope it touches something in you, too.

She stands staring out the window, but sees nothing—her mind is on the fragile man lying in the bed behind her. She no longer remembers how many days or years have passed. It feels like he’s been there forever.

His hair has long since turned white. He can barely speak above a whisper. Sitting up is too much, so he lies still, day after day.

“Why do you stay?” she’s asked him more times than she can count.

And every time, he whispers the same answer: “Because I love you.”

Some days, she reads to him from the newspaper, sharing bits of the outside world. Other days, she reads his favorite books, the ones with weathered covers and soft, worn pages. He never tires of her voice—the way she gently shapes the words he knows by heart.

But his favorite moments are when she talks about them.

He loves hearing her speak about how they first met in Paris—how she was standing near the train station, unsure of the language, and he offered her a piece of bread and a quiet smile.

How they stumbled through words, but never through feelings. How he kissed her hand in the rain before he ever kissed her lips.

She talks about their courtship, the long walks along the Seine, the nervous way he asked if she would come to America with him—and how she said yes before he even finished asking.

Then she talks about the day they found out they were expecting…about bringing home little Jeremy… about Jeremy’s first wobbly steps.

She always laughs a little when she talks about how nervous she was when he learned to drive—how she clutched the door handle the whole way to the grocery store and prayed under her breath at every stop sign. He had grinned the whole time, proud and fearless. “Like he was born with keys in his pocket,” she used to say.

She remembers the day he told them he was joining the Army. How proud he looked, standing so tall—so sure of himself. And how much fear and pride tangled together in their hearts as they nodded and smiled and told him they supported him. Because of course they did. But when the door closed behind him that day, she had cried.

Those days feel long gone—until she speaks of them. Then, it feels like just yesterday.

Sometimes, though, Nico sees the sadness creep into Aunya’s eyes. He knows where her thoughts have gone.bShe’s remembering the day the men came to the door. The day they were told that their Jeremy wouldn’t be coming home from the war.

A single tear rolls down his cheek as the memory returns—holding her as she crumpled to the floor, their hearts breaking in unison.

Still, he loves seeing her smile when she talks about their little poodle, Ella—how the tiny dog would bark with joy whenever he came home from work. They hadn’t meant to bring home a dog that day. She had just wanted to look at the shelter—just look, she’d said. But there she was: a trembling puff of white fluff tucked in the corner of a crate, looking up at them with eyes far too knowing for a pup. She had walked straight to him and rested her tiny head on his shoe. That was that.

He always believed Jeremy had sent her to them. Ella had a way of cocking her head when she listened… just like Jeremy did as a boy.

Now, even Ella is gone. The house has grown quieter without the soft shuffle of paws or the cheerful bark that once greeted him at the door. Her little bed still sits tucked in the corner, long undisturbed. It’s another empty space they carry.

From his bed, Nico watches her at the window. She’s quiet, still. But he can see it—the weight in her shoulders, the heaviness in her frame. She is just as frail and sick as he is… but she stays strong for him.

He remembers how she once stood like that in Paris, before they crossed the ocean together. She had fled Russia with her family; he had come from Italy looking for work. They didn’t share a language at first—only glances, and eventually, hands. America was never quite home… but she always had been.

He knows. It won’t be long now.

Every day, Aunya has asked him why he stays. She knows the pain he’s in, the way his body fights for each breath. But lately, the question has carried something more. She feels it too—that slow, quiet fading. It’s in her bones, in the tired way her hands tremble, in the heaviness that no sleep can lift.

She asks because she knows her time is drawing near as well… and maybe, deep down, she wonders if he’s still holding on for her.

And every day, he gives the same answer: “Because I love you.”

He feels the time drawing close. His breathing becomes labored. She turns from the window as he starts to cough, hurrying to his side and lifting a glass of water to his lips.

“Rest,” he whispers.

She lowers herself into the faded, threadbare yellow wingback chair beside his bed.

“I can’t,” she says softly. “Not until I know…” She doesn’t finish the thought. She doesn’t have to.

Again, she asks, “Why do you stay?” And again, he answers, gently:“Because I love you.” He stretches out a hand, and she takes it, feeling how frail he’s become.

“Rest,” he whispers again. She leans back, closes her eyes, and sighs. He watches her for a moment longer, studying the way her breath rises and falls—slow, uneven.

Her hand is still warm in his, but her grip loosens, just slightly.

“I love you,” he breathes one last time. Something shifts in the quiet. He knows. He feels it.

She’s gone.

A soft stillness settles around them. And with his final whisper, he says:“Now I can go.” Still holding her hand, with his eyes already closed, he follows her into the quiet.

This story was written by the author and edited with the assistance of AI. All ideas, structure, and emotional tone originated from the author, with AI used as a creative editing tool.