You had learned to smile through heartbreak.

In his family's house, where every hallway echoed with criticism, you stood quietly while their words sliced into you like thin, invisible knives.

"She can't even take care of the smallest things," one of them scoffed.

"She's dragging him down," another whispered loudly enough for you to hear.

You lowered your gaze, fingers twisting nervously, waiting-hoping-he would defend you.

But he didn't.

He sat beside you, eyes fixed on his phone, pretending not to notice the humiliation burning your cheeks. His silence hurt more than the insults themselves. It felt like confirmation: that you were alone.

You walked beside him afterward, your steps unsteady. "You heard what they said..." you whispered.

He didn't stop walking. "Just ignore it."

Your voice trembled. "But it hurts. They talk like I'm nothing."

He shrugged. "Don't make everything a big deal."

The world around you dimmed, and for the first time, your heart cracked not from their cruelty-but from his indifference.

What you couldn't see was the war inside him.

He loved you. Desperately. But every insult thrown at you felt like a chain around his throat. He felt weak-too weak to confront his family, too afraid to lose them, too ashamed to admit he was failing you. His guilt twisted into avoidance, and avoidance into coldness. Every time he walked away from you, he hated himself a little more.

One night, you sat on the edge of the bed, wiping tears with trembling hands. He entered the room, stopping in the doorway as if unsure whether he belonged there.

You looked at him with swollen eyes. "Do I embarrass you?"

He blinked, startled. "What? No."

"Then why don't you protect me? Why won't you stand up for me?" His chest rose, then fell. "Because I'm tired. Because I don't know what you want from me anymore."

Your heart shattered. "I just want you," you whispered. "Just you."

He sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, staring at the dark ceiling. "I'm scared," he murmured, voice hollow. "Scared that I'm failing as a son... and failing as your husband."

"But you're hurting me," you whispered back. "Every day, you're hurting me." He didn't move. He didn't hold you. He didn't even reach for your hand.

You lay down and turned away from him, crying quietly. And he stayed where he was, paralyzed by fear and guilt, letting the was, paralyzed by fear and guilt, letting the woman he loved sink deeper into loneliness while convincing himself he was powerless to stop it.

In truth, the love between you wasn't fading

it was bleeding.

Slowly, painfully, tragically.

And every day that he stayed silent, another piece of you disappeared into the darkness he helped create.