It had been two years since Rohan and I got married. Two long years of shared space, shared routines, and yet, not a single moment where I truly felt like his wife.
I had tried everything—soft words, quiet gestures, the little things they say love is built on. I changed myself in ways I didn't know I could, hoping he would notice, hoping he would let me in. But nothing worked. It was as if there was an invisible wall between us—one that I couldn't break, no matter how much I tried.
Maybe the flaw was in me. Maybe there was something missing in who I was—something he had been silently searching for and never found.
That evening, the silence in the house felt heavier than usual. The ticking clock on the wall sounded louder, each second a cruel reminder of time slipping by without change. I sat quietly in my room, the door half-closed, the world shut out.
A thousand thoughts swirled in my head, some sharp, some weary. What more could I have done? Was love supposed to feel this lonely?
Outside, the world carried on—cars passed, people laughed, lives moved forward. But in that small room, I remained still, wrapped in the echo of unspoken words and unmet hopes.
It wasn't that Rohan was cruel. No, he was kind in the way a stranger might be—polite, distant, guarded. But that hurt even more. He never raised his voice, but he never reached for my hand either.
And now, two years into this marriage, I found myself sitting on the edge of the bed, wondering: Was I married in name only?
Or was this what love looked like, when it forgot to bloom?
The days passed quietly, like pages turning in a book no one was really reading. Rohan came and went, his routine unshaken—early morning coffee, work calls, polite nods, and nights spent on the other side of the bed, always just out of reach.
There were moments—small, fleeting moments—when I thought I saw something in his eyes. Regret, maybe. Or fear. But it vanished too quickly, like smoke before I could grasp it.
I sometimes wondered what had gone wrong between us before anything had even started.
Our marriage had not been one of whirlwind romance or fairy tale promises. It was arranged—two families, two names joined together on paper and through rituals. I hadn't known Rohan well then, but I had hoped. I had believed that love could grow in time.
But time had passed. And love, it seemed, had never arrived.
That evening, rain tapped softly on the window. I sat by it, hugging my knees to my chest, watching as the sky darkened, mirroring the heaviness in my heart. The scent of wet earth filled the room, a scent I used to love. But now, it just reminded me of things slipping away.
I reached for the drawer beside the bed and pulled out the small journal I had started writing after our wedding. Its pages held pieces of me I couldn't say aloud—letters I had written to Rohan but never had the courage to give.
I opened to one.
"Dear Rohan,
Sometimes I wonder if you see me. Not just the girl you married, not the person you come home to—but me. The woman who waits for a glance, a word, a reason to believe she matters to you."
I closed the journal quickly, swallowing back the lump in my throat.
And just then, the door creaked open.
Rohan stood there, looking unusually uncertain. His eyes met mine, and for once, he didn't look away.
"I saw your light was still on," he said, voice low. "You haven't had dinner?"
I shook my head. "Wasn't hungry."
A long pause.
He stepped into the room, hesitating like a guest unsure if he was welcome.
"I... I know I've been distant," he said, barely above a whisper.
I looked at him, surprised. It was the first time in two years he had acknowledged it.
"Why, Rohan?" I asked softly. "Why have you kept me so far away?"
He didn't answer right away. His eyes dropped to the floor, then back to me. There was something raw in his expression—something he had kept locked away.
There was a time I thought we were close to understanding each other, that the distance would shrink if I tried hard enough. I made every effort to understand his silences, to listen beyond his words, to reach the heart he so carefully guards. But even now, something still holds him back—something invisible yet impenetrable.
He's my husband. By every societal and legal definition, he has every right to be close to me. And yet, not once has he claimed that right—not with words, not with touch, not even with the vulnerability that love demands.
I often wonder how we're supposed to sustain a relationship built more on silence than connection. How does one nurture a bond that never really took root?
Sometimes, I watch him from the corner of my eye—his face unreadable, his thoughts locked away. What is he hiding? Pain? Fear? Regret?
We share a home, a name, a future on paper… but can we ever truly share a life?
Will we ever live like a normal husband and wife?
Or are we destined to remain this way forever—together, yet apart?
"I gave up everything for him," she whispered to herself. Her voice, though soft, was steady. "My family, my career, my entire life… all for Rohan."
When she met Rohan, her world had changed overnight. He was warmth in her cold routine, a storm she welcomed in her otherwise predictable life. With him, she had dared to dream differently. She left the comfort of her childhood home, the career she had built with care, and the life she once knew so intimately—all in the name of love.
But love, she now realized, wasn't always enough.
She couldn't ignore it anymore. The growing distance. The unanswered questions. The ache of being unseen.
Maybe this relationship was only meant to last this far, she thought, the bitter truth slowly solidifying in her heart.
There was only one way to find out the answers haunting her—she had to talk to Rohan.
"I need to speak with him," she said aloud, as if saying it would make her braver. "Maybe all this confusion… all this pain… has only one solution—divorce."
The word lingered in the room like a cold wind. It was heavy, terrifying, yet oddly freeing.
But one question remained—Is this what Rohan wants too?