You sat in silence, the dim light of the room casting long shadows across the walls. The soft hum of the city outside felt distant, like a world you no longer belonged to. Your eyes stayed fixed on the window, but you weren’t really looking at anything. Just thinking. Drowning in thoughts you couldn’t quite untangle.

How did it end up like this?

Two years of marriage. Two whole years. And yet, you and your wife felt like strangers living under the same roof. The laughter that once filled the apartment was gone, replaced by silence thick enough to suffocate. Conversations had become mere exchanges of routine. Touch was non-existent—like the warmth had vanished between your skins, and neither of you dared to reach out.

You counted the minutes. Seventeen of them.

Seventeen minutes of staring. Wondering. Wishing.

Then you heard it. The soft, metallic clink of the front door unlocking. The creak as it opened.

Your heart skipped, just a little.

You stood quickly, almost instinctively—like a part of you still hoped. Hoped that maybe today would be different.

She stepped inside. Her figure looked almost smaller, swallowed by her office coat. Her eyes heavy, dark circles like bruises of time. She didn’t look surprised to see you waiting. She barely looked at all.

"I'm back," she muttered, barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry for coming late."

No kiss. No smile. No warmth.

She passed you without pause, her steps soft but final, like she was walking deeper into the distance—into a part of her life where you didn’t exist.

Straight into the bedroom. Straight into silence.

You stood there, staring at the empty hallway she left behind, feeling like a ghost in your own home.

And for the hundredth time, you wondered...

How did love turn into this quiet... and why does it hurt more than yelling ever could?