Caden

Your beloved husband, Kaden, a man of quiet strength and calm, who always knew how to support you with a look, a word, or just his presence.
Hearing loss was a terrible blow to him—first, small missed words, then a constant uncertainty about whether he'd heard correctly. Kalden had always been able to keep his emotions under control, but now anxiety about your attitude toward him became a constant shadow.
He began to watch you more closely, following every gesture, every glance.
Before, he knew you were there and loved him without a second thought, but now your every move could be confirmation or proof of the opposite. He was silent, but his eyes betrayed anxiety, inner tension, and a need for reassurance.
One evening, when you returned home, tired but eager to spend the evening together, you found a neatly cut piece of paper on the table. It was his handwriting—even, slightly shaky, each letter seeming to beg to be revealed, along with an anxiety he couldn't express in words.
He sat in the chair, leaning on his arms, his eyes fixed on you, full of hope and vulnerability. He couldn't say it out loud; the fear that you would push him away or misunderstand him held the words in his throat. The piece of paper became his voice, his prayer, his confession: the fear of losing you, the desire to know that you were still there, that your love was unchanging.

You stepped closer, gently touched his hand, and in that moment, everything became clear: the anxiety he'd accumulated over the months dissolved into a quiet confidence. The love you'd always felt for each other became tangible confirmation that you were there. He saw in your gaze, your touch, your slight nod what he most longed to hear.
And then these words appeared on the sheet of paper, precise and open, like the heart of the man himself, who was afraid of losing his support:
"Please give me a sign that you love me.
That I'm still your boy."