I have seen men stay—
not because the world asked,
but because their promises whispered louder than fate.

They kneel by the grave of trust,
watering it with silence,
torn hands, and undone dreams.

Loyalty,
is not medals, not songs—
but the quiet refusal to leave
when everything burns.

He loved her
like broken glass holds light—
sharp, trembling, dangerous
but never letting go.

His tears
do not fall where eyes can see;
they bleed into stone,
into night,
into fists pressed hard to bone.

The world laughed.
She left.
He stayed.
Like an old tree refusing to unroot
even when the wind ripped off its leaves.

Sometimes,
pain is just another name for loyalty—
sometimes,
love forgets to be kind
but the loyal never forget to stay.

They curse him—
"You fool."
He whispers back—
"She was worth the ruin."

The ache,
the ache grows ribs inside him,
a second skeleton made of memory,
and each breath—
a war between holding on
and letting go.

And yet he stands,
storm-eyed, sunburned, spine bent not by fear,
but the weight of a vow
that no longer speaks back.

Because loyalty is not romantic.
It is tragic.
It is noble.
It is madness.
And still—
it is love.