The rain had just eased, leaving behind damp air that clung to the misted windows of the small café at the corner of the street. The smell of coffee mixed with the scent of wet earth filled the narrow space.

I sat upright, my coat still marked with faint stains from the drizzle. A slightly crumpled newspaper was spread in my hands, fingers steady against its folds. Now and then I turned a page, the thin paper rustling against the low murmur of conversations around me.

From the outside, I might have looked like an ordinary man—quiet, not much of a talker. But my silence was never empty. Every so often I lifted my head, my eyes pausing for a moment on her face across the table. She was absorbed in her notebook, pencil twirling idly between her fingers. Just a glance, and then I sank back into the columns of print.

Our marriage had not begun with love. It was arranged by our families—no grand ceremony, only signatures on paper that felt too thin to carry the weight of a life-long bond. At first, we were strangers under the same roof, moving carefully around each other in that modest two-story house hidden at the edge of the city. The rooms were small, the garden narrow, yet somehow it suited us. There was no music, no television humming in the background—just the creak of the stairs, the faint tap of her footsteps across the wooden floor.

But over time, I learned to love her in my own way: by respecting her quiet world, by never demanding what she could not give, and by offering small gestures without the need for words. Small things like polishing her shoes when mine were done. Folding the laundry before she noticed it had been left in the basket. Or ordering tea instead of coffee because I knew she always drained her cup of tea faster.

The waiter set that cup before her now. She did not look up. I said nothing either, but I knew she noticed. That was our language: attention without sound.

The calm was broken when a burst of laughter cut through the room. A young woman in a bright dress approached our table, her smile too wide, her voice too sweet for the small space. “Excuse me,” she said, her eyes fixed directly on me. “I’ve been watching you for a while. Alone, aren’t you?”

I turned my head slowly. My face stayed impassive, my gaze brief, before I returned to the paper. “No,” I answered quietly, almost cold. I lowered the paper just enough to glance at my wife still writing—making sure she was undisturbed—then lifted it back up again. The girl didn’t give up. With a small laugh, she added, “What a pity. If you get bored, I usually sit over there in the corner.”

I didn’t smile. I didn’t offer politeness. My fingers simply moved to turn another page. My silence was louder than any outright refusal. At last, she faltered, awkward, and retreated to her own table. I didn’t follow her with my eyes. Instead, I folded the newspaper carefully, setting it down on the table. My hand reached for the cup of tea I had ordered. Without a word, I slid it closer to my wife—just a few inches, but clear enough. I am with my wife.

Briefly, I looked at her. My gaze steady, my jaw relaxing slightly, as if the whole disturbance meant nothing at all. One deep breath, one small gesture, and then I leaned back again, fingers laced loosely on the table, letting the comfortable silence reclaim its place.

The café was filled with the sound of spoons chiming against glasses and the soft murmur of other tables. But between us, the silence was different. It wasn’t empty. It was a language we had long built—a silence full and certain, affirming that I needed no words, no performance. What I needed was already here before me—whole, steady, and without the slightest doubt. And as I watched her hand move across the page, pencil sketching faint lines, I realized again what I had known for some time: ours may have been a marriage arranged by others, but the love I carried for her was entirely mine. Quiet, steadfast, and unshakable.