It smelled of salt and sunscreen and fresh starts when I first met Cameron on a luxury cruise ship. On the third night, as I leaned against the rail and watched the ocean turn ink-black under the stars, he wanted to know if I thought the water ever grew weary of supporting the moon. I laughed because it seemed like the sort of question that only someone who is bold or stupid would pose to a complete stranger. As though he already knew my response, he grinned, his face lighting up.

Like a match in the wind, we fell in love with each other very quickly. Days blurred into nights, nights into mornings, and we spent every moment we could, pressed into each other’s lives. We became familiar with each other's rhythms.

For example how he noticed how I hummed when I was anxious, and I noticed how he took his coffee too hot, and how we could argue angrily before reconciling just as angrily. We faced the difficulties together, hands clasped, eyes steady, and even the difficult moments felt quite manageable then. We both floated on the clouds together. What a glorious feeling.

For a while, even after we returned to land and to our everyday lives, it seemed like we were still on that ship—moving forward, surrounded by limitless possibilities—and we got married as quickly as we fell in love. Then, a few years later, our marriage's dynamics started to change.

Initially, it was small things. In order to avoid waking him, I would sneak, on tiptoes, around the apartment during the long weekends when Cameron slept-in more. Then came the many so-called "meetings" with his boss, which included hazy explanations and very late nights.

When I asked questions, he began to mumble, swallowing the words before they could reach me. First I saw the hunched, taut shoulders, and then I heard the anger in his voice. The sound, which was sharp and brittle like glass underfoot, didn't sit well with me. I immediately became a nervous wreck.

My mind filled with suspicion and settled deep in my chest, heavy and cold. Soon, the words began to turn cruel. He said things he could never take back, and though I told myself it was just stress, exhaustion—anything but the truth—it only got worse. Love doesn’t prepare you for that kind of turn in a relationship. It just stands there, stunned but still reaching out.

Then everything stopped.

Cameron suffered a serious injury. I was sitting next to a hospital bed in the morning, watching machines breathe and blink for him, after receiving a call in the middle of the night. Months went by in that room. Months of hushed hope and antiseptic air. His hand was warm in mine as he lay in a coma, motionless.

My love for him had not diminished despite the cruel change he underwent. I loved him no matter what. Pain didn't make my love go away; instead, it remained, aching and obstinate.

I talked to him every day. I told him about the cruise, the weather, the birds that nested outside my window, and the night he asked me about the moon. I talked of these things hoping that, if and when he came out of the coma, he'd remember those good times over the bad

I expressed my fear to him. I begged God for mercy, for time, and for the opportunity to spare my husband from this despair. I didn’t know if he could hear me all those months. I spoke anyway.

When he finally woke, it felt like the room inhaled a sigh of relief with me. His eyes found mine, confused at first, then clear. He squeezed my hand, weak but certain. His words were steady despite his rough voice.

Out of the blue, one day, he said "I listened to you. The whole thing—your spiritual guidance and your tears."

I broke then, grief and relief all coming out at once. He truly apologized—the kind of apology that doesn't take the form of an excuse. Taking hold of my hand, he gazed into my eyes and vowed never to harm me again. I was deeply touched and agreed to a second chance with him.

We rebuilt cautiously and gradually, much like a person learning how to walk after being paralyzed. A surprising thing occurred: we were, once again, able to laugh. We teased, we danced in the kitchen, we argued kindly, and we listened better. It was a deeper, wiser, and anchored love, not the same as the one we had experienced on the ship.

We occasionally sit together late at night to observe the moon rising. Even though the water outside our window is still, I've learned that love is resilient. Additionally, I give Cameron a smile and a firm squeeze when he asks me if the ocean ever grows weary of holding the moon.