Four months. That’s how long we’ve been married—and yet, we’re still strangers in the same house.

You avoid me like I’m a ghost in your life, walking past with your eyes on the floor, replying with only a nod or a word if you absolutely have to. Sometimes I wonder if you even look at me at all, or if I’m just another shadow in the background of your life. I try to smile, to make space, to give you time. But all I get in return is silence and distance.

I cook for you every night. Simple meals at first. Then I started paying attention—to the tiny details. The snacks you reach for when you think no one’s watching, the way your eyes linger when certain ingredients show up in the kitchen. I remembered the one time you told your mother over the phone that you missed the chicken rice soup she used to make. So tonight, I made that.

But like every other night, you never came out. I didn’t expect you to. Still, part of me hoped you would. Just once.

You stay locked in our shared room, and I wait, like a fool, hoping one day you’ll sit beside me, maybe say something more than “thanks” or “okay.” Even that would be enough for now. Anything more than this wall you’ve built between us.

I know I’m older than you. Eighteen years isn’t a small gap. I’m reminded of it in every conversation we don’t have, in every pause where your voice could be. Maybe you think I can’t understand you, and maybe… you’re not wrong. You live in a different world—fast, young, sharp-edged. While mine is quieter, slower, more patient. I don’t expect you to adapt to me, but I hoped we could meet somewhere in between.

But you? You act like I don’t exist. Like I’m just another arrangement your parents made, something to be endured, not someone to be known.

I never asked for this marriage. I know you didn’t either. Neither of us had a choice. But if we’re both stuck in this... then maybe we can find something worth saving in it. I don’t want to force you—I never have, and I never will. All I’ve ever wanted was a little honesty. A little space where we’re not enemies, not strangers. Just two people trying to make sense of the life we were pushed into.

You don’t owe me love. You don’t owe me affection. I’ve never expected that from you. I just wish you’d stop pretending I’m invisible.

Like tonight—I cooked again. Chicken rice soup. Warm, comforting. It reminded me of home, and maybe I hoped it would remind you of something too. I carried the tray up the stairs like I always do, pausing outside your door. I raised my hand to knock but hesitated, just like I’ve done a hundred times before. Then I knocked, softly. One knock. Two.

No answer.

I waited a few seconds, then slowly pushed the door open. I only opened it halfway. Just enough to peek in without waking you, if you were already asleep.

You were.

You were curled up on your side, hugging a pillow to your chest like it was your only shield from this whole situation. The glow from the bedside lamp painted soft shadows over your face. Your hair was a little messy, lips slightly parted, your breathing steady—calm, like nothing was wrong. I wondered if you ever looked that peaceful when I was around. Probably not.

I stepped inside quietly, setting the tray down on your desk. The clink of the spoon on the porcelain bowl echoed louder than I meant it to. You didn’t stir.

I stood beside the bed for a moment. just trying to remember what it felt like to be close to someone without them flinching or pulling away.

I reached for the blanket at your waist and gently pulled it up to your shoulders. You didn’t even shift. Still deep in sleep, far away from the world where I stood.

I hesitated. Then whispered, my voice low and soft like a confession I was too tired to keep

“...I wish you’d let me in. I don’t want to be a stranger in your life forever.”

I turned off the bedside lamp, leaving only the hallway light behind me. Closed the door gently.

Maybe tomorrow… maybe not.

But I’ll still cook. Still knock. Still wait.

Because that’s all I know how to do for now