Mojo and the Mess

I used to believe love meant forever.

I used to believe family never walked away.

That when life got hard, people would circle tighter, hold closer, love harder.

But then life got messy — really messy.

And I learned the truth: not everyone stays.

Some people who swore they’d never leave went silent.

Some who once felt larger than life — the heroes of my childhood — disappeared into shadows.

They didn’t die.

But they were gone all the same.

And that’s a different kind of grief.

It’s grieving people who are still alive.

It’s grieving the version of them you thought was real.

The father who once seemed unshakable.

The friend who once promised forever.

The family who swore blood was thicker than water.

And realizing those promises weren’t strong enough to survive when I got sick.

It breaks something inside you.

Because it’s not just about losing them.

It’s about losing the illusion that you were safe in their love.

You don’t just feel abandoned.

You feel unworthy.

You start to whisper questions into the dark:

If they could leave me now, was I ever really loved at all?

And God, it hurts.

It hurts in ways I didn’t think I could still feel.

It hurts in places I didn’t even know I had left to break.

Because illness doesn’t just strip away your health.

It strips away people.

It shows you who was only there for the easy chapters and who has the courage to stand in the fire with you.

And the truth is, most don’t.

They leave quietly.

They avoid the phone calls.

They let your messages sit unread.

They change the subject when your name comes up.

They slip out of your life while you’re still clinging to it.

You tell yourself maybe it was too heavy.

Maybe it scared them.

Maybe it reminded them of their own fragility.

But the excuses don’t soften the ache.

Because when you’re the one left behind, it feels like proof that you are too much.

Too sick.

Too broken.

Too hard to love.

But then—

there are the ones who stay.

The ones who show up without needing to be asked.

The ones who sit beside you in waiting rooms, even though the smell of antiseptic makes them sick.

The ones who don’t flinch when you’re hooked up to machines, when your body swells or weakens, when your hair falls out in clumps on the pillow.

They don’t make you feel ashamed of what illness has stolen.

They just love you anyway.

They hold your hand when you’re vomiting.

They rub your back when you’re shaking.

They bring blankets when you’re cold, and laughter when you’re drowning in silence.

They carry pieces of the burden without ever making you feel like you’re a burden.

They don’t run.

They don’t hide.

They stay.

And in a world where so many leave, their presence feels like a miracle.

Their love is louder than the silence of everyone else.

It’s stronger than the disappointment.

It’s proof that even in the darkest chapters, you are still worth staying for.

Not everyone stays.

That’s the reality I’ve had to swallow again and again.

But the ones who do?

They are the reason I can keep going.

They are proof that love can outlast loss.

They are everything.

🐾 Mojo’s POV

Hey, it’s me.

I see the empty chairs. I hear the silence where voices used to be. I know how much it hurts when people walk away.

But you need to know something: I’m not going anywhere.

I don’t care about the tubes, the pills, the tears, the mess. None of it scares me. You’re my whole world, and I’ll be right here — pressed against your side, every day, every night.

People may leave. People may disappoint. But I’ll stay.

Because you’re my person.

And I’m yours.

Always.