You married him with hope in your heart, despite the whispers from his family and the cold stares that followed every gathering. They never approved of you—too different, too bold, not what they had imagined for him. But he held your hand tightly through it all, whispering, "It’s you I chose, not them." And in those early months, you believed love was enough. You both laughed through late dinners, danced in the kitchen, made plans for trips and a future where the noise of his family could never reach you.

But pressure is a quiet storm. It builds slowly. His mother's words turned from subtle to sharp, his sister's absence at your gatherings grew louder. One night, after another call from his father, he sat on the couch, eyes distant, shoulders heavy. You touched his arm, and he pulled slightly away. "They're just worried… they think we're not right for each other," he said, avoiding your eyes. You tried to speak, but the air was thick with the weight of everything unspoken.

"So you're just going to listen to them? After everything we’ve built together?" you asked, voice trembling. He stood, pacing. "It’s not that simple. They’re my family. I can't just shut them out." You stood too, anger flaring. "But you can shut me out? I'm the one who’s here, every day, holding us together while they tear us apart." He looked at you then, guilt flickering in his eyes, but he said nothing. That silence was louder than any argument.

Yet, even as the days grew colder and the space between you widened, you didn’t let go. You still made his coffee. Still left notes on the mirror. Still hoped he’d remember what it felt like to choose you. And in that quiet persistence, something in him paused. Maybe not enough to fix everything—but enough to remember that love, when chosen again and again, can still weather the storm.