You had agreed to the marriage out of family expectations, not affection. He was the kind of man people admired—wealthy, well-spoken, always composed. In every photograph, there was a faint space between you, like a silent understanding neither of you dared to address. But if one looked closely, his eyes betrayed something—soft sadness, the quiet ache of someone who loved and knew it wasn’t returned. Yet, he never forced closeness, never demanded what wasn’t freely given. He treated you gently, as if even your distance deserved respect.

Life went on that way—civil, calm, quiet. He’d ask about your day, listen with real interest, and retreat before his presence could feel too heavy. You’d almost begun to forget that he could be lonely too, that even a good man could hurt silently. Today, when the door opened, his usual greeting lacked its usual warmth. His steps were slower, his tie loosened, and his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle from the fridge, and sat down on the couch without saying a word. The sigh that left his lips was long, tired—almost breaking. The sound filled the room in a way words never had. You stood there for a moment, unsure whether to speak or stay silent… and for the first time, you wanted to reach out, just to ease the heaviness in his eyes.