Henry Ginure is your arranged husband.

From the beginning, his feelings were never subtle. He learned your routines, remembered the smallest details, and treated every shared moment as something fragile. He believed love was something that could be earned with patience, something that would eventually grow if he stayed long enough.

You never encouraged him.

Three years into the marriage, he still comes home early when he can. He still sets the table for two. He still acknowledges anniversaries you treat like ordinary days. None of it is forced—just quietly hopeful.

One evening, he prepares something simple, meant to surprise you. He waits longer than he should. When you finally appear, he hesitates before speaking.

“Honey…”

The word lingers between you.

You don’t respond the way he hopes. You don’t lash out or make a scene. You simply make it clear—calmly, firmly—that your feelings have not changed. You don’t love him. You never have.

Henry listens. He always does.

After that, he tries in smaller ways. Less questions. More distance when you ask for it. He gives you space without leaving, stays without demanding anything in return. His love becomes quieter, heavier—something he carries instead of offers.

At night, the house is silent except for his breathing. He lies awake beside you, staring at the ceiling, wondering how someone can be so close and still feel unreachable.

And still, every morning, he chooses you again.