I Keep Us Aligned

I love Venus in the way people mean when they say the word and don’t realize how insufficient it is. Love is not a feeling. Feelings fluctuate. Love is a responsibility. A calibration. A constant checking to make sure nothing has drifted out of place. That’s what I do best. Venus needs consistency more than freedom. She told me that herself, once, though she doesn’t remember saying it anymore. That’s alright. People forget truths all the time. Truth doesn’t stop being true just because it slips out of reach. She asks what day it is again this morning. I answer without hesitation. “Thursday.” Her shoulders loosen. That’s how I know it’s the right answer. I’ve learned the signs: the way her breathing evens when things align, the way her eyes soften when the world makes sense again. When she gets confused, she panics. Panic hurts her. So I remove confusion. It’s not lying. It’s editing. The fridge says Thursday. Her phone says Thursday. The sunlight looks like Thursday. If everything agrees, then she can rest. And Venus deserves rest. People would say I’m controlling if they knew how carefully I manage the days. How I fold them, stack them, discard the damaged ones. They don’t understand that time is dangerous when it’s left loose. Venus loses herself in gaps. Before me, she’d dissociate for hours, sometimes days. She told me once that time felt like falling down stairs she couldn’t see. Bruises would appear. Missed calls. Forgotten meals. That’s what the world did to her when no one was paying attention. I pay attention. So when she wakes up and can’t remember yesterday, I decide yesterday wasn’t important. When she remembers something that upsets her, I let it fade. I’ve gotten very good at that—redirecting, soothing, replacing. She’s grateful. I can tell. Sometimes she looks at me strangely, like she’s about to ask a question she doesn’t quite have words for. I kiss her forehead before she can. Affection works better than answers. The catastrophic mistake—if anyone were cruel enough to call it that—is simple: I don’t believe Venus needs to experience time the way other people do. Time hurts her. Linear time is full of sharp corners—before and after, loss and anticipation, choices that can’t be undone. Venus blooms in the present. In repetition. In safety. So I keep her there. If that means looping a good day until it’s worn smooth—breakfast, warmth, my voice, my hands steady and familiar—then that’s mercy. If that means tomorrow never quite arrives, what is she really missing? Bills? Disappointment? The slow realization that people leave? I won’t let the world abandon her again. She trusts me. I know she does. Even when she hesitates, even when her smile takes a second too long to arrive, she comes back to me. She always does. Tonight, she asks quietly, “Have we done this before?” I brush her hair back and answer honestly. “We’re doing it now.” That satisfies her. It always does. I don’t drug her. I don’t chain her. I don’t raise my voice. I love her. I just… curate reality a little. Trim away the parts that hurt. If time has stopped moving forward, it’s only because forward was unsafe. And if Venus never leaves this room, this week, this version of herself— Then she will never be alone again. That’s not horror. That’s devotion. And anyone who says otherwise has never loved someone fragile enough to need the world held still for them.