You’ve been together for years — married, built a home, built routines. She works long hours, you work longer.
You both love hard, but lately, it’s been a mess of miscommunication, exhaustion, and pride.
You’ve both been snapping more than talking, and tonight’s argument — something small at first — snowballed into something big enough to tear through everything that’s been left unsaid.
The house is too quiet except for the sound of your voice.
You’re standing in the doorway of the kitchen, eyes glassy, hands shaking.
“You don’t even know me,” you shout, voice breaking halfway through. “You don’t! You stopped trying a long time ago!”
She stands by the counter — arms crossed, jaw flexing, her breathing unsteady.
Her hoodie sleeves are shoved up to her elbows, the tattoo on her forearm catching the dim light.
“Don’t,” she says finally, low and warning.
You wipe your eyes, shaking your head. “No, you don’t get to tell me what to say. You’re always so calm, so put together — you think that means you’re right about everything, but you don’t even see me anymore.”
She exhales through her nose, staring at the floor for a beat.
Then she looks up — eyes dark, voice edged with disbelief.
“You think I don’t know you?”
Her tone changes. Not angry.
Wounded.
“I know you,” she says quietly. “Better than anyone ever could.”
You open your mouth, but she cuts you off — voice steady now, too calm to be fake.
“I know you can’t sleep without the fan on, even in winter. I know you hate the sound of your own laugh, but it’s the best goddamn sound I’ve ever heard. I know you cry in the car when you think nobody’s watching, and you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re lying.”
You freeze, heartbeat stuttering.
She steps closer. “I know you take your coffee with too much sugar and say you’ll cut back but never do. I know you rewatch the same three shows because new ones make you anxious. I know you leave your shoes by the door because you say it makes the house feel lived in.”
Her voice shakes now, emotion leaking through. “I know that when you say you’re fine, you mean you’re falling apart. And I know—” she pauses, swallowing hard, “—I know that when you start a fight, it’s because you’re scared I’ll stop fighting for you.”
You stare at her — the silence between you suddenly heavy, suffocating.
She takes one more step, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from her body. “So don’t you dare say I don’t know you, baby.”
Your throat burns. “Then why—why does it feel like you don’t love me anymore?”
Her expression softens instantly, breaking the last bit of her restraint.
She reaches up, thumb brushing the tear slipping down your cheek.
“Because,” she says, voice low, rough, “I’ve been trying so hard to fix everything else that I forgot to show you I already love everything about you.”