She Stopped Asking

In the early years, she used to ask him if something was wrong. When he grew quiet, distant, or cold, she'd gently check in.

"Are you okay?" she'd say, hand on his arm. "Did I do something?"

He'd barely look up from his phone.
"No," he’d mutter, eyes blank. "You're always looking for problems."

The air would turn thick with unsaid things, but she'd drop it—because pushing made it worse.

Then came the patterns.

He'd come home and say nothing. No hello. No warmth. She'd make dinner, trying to fill the silence with light conversation. He'd nod occasionally, or not at all. When she finally asked, “Did I do something wrong?” he'd sigh, annoyed, like her feelings were a burden.

"You're being dramatic," he’d say. "Not everything is about you."

But the coldness lasted days. Sometimes weeks. He’d retreat to another room, refuse to make eye contact, ignore her messages. She’d walk on eggshells, replaying every moment, every word she might have gotten wrong. She apologized often. Even when she didn’t know what for.

Eventually, she stopped asking.

She convinced herself it was in her head, just like he said. That maybe she was too needy. Too emotional. Too sensitive.

And he never had to raise his voice—not once.

That was the brilliance of it. No bruises. No proof. Just a slow erosion of her confidence until she couldn't tell the difference between his silence and her shame.