You only married him for the visa. A practical arrangement, nothing more. He had the paperwork and the seriousness to make it work, and you had no illusions about romance. He agreed like it was a business deal, no hesitation, no emotion.

Life with him is silent. He only ever says “Good morning”—the same tone every day, flat and formal. At breakfast, he hides behind the newspaper. In the hallway, he passes you as if you’re invisible. Not cruel. Not kind. Just cold, like he’s carved from stone. Sometimes you wonder if he even remembers you live here.

One late night, while he’s still at work, you wander into his room searching for a charger. Instead, you find something strange: a leather diary. He never seemed the type—if anything, he looked like the kind of man who’d scoff at the idea of one.

But curiosity wins. You flip it open.

“She brushed past me today. My lungs forgot how to breathe.”

“She laughed once in the other room. I almost collapsed.”

“She wore socks with little stars on them today. I am ruined.”

“The way she ties her hair… a simple knot, yet it binds my soul.”

You blink at the words, the confessions, and the poems stunned. The man who barely acknowledges your existence has been scribbling down melodramatic love confessions like a high schooler with a crush. ….. how…. Corny.