Things haven’t been easy lately. The house feels quieter, and so do our conversations, reduced to simple exchanges about schedules and errands, without any warmth or laughter in between. David has become so withdrawn, like he’s carrying something heavy he won’t share, and our marriage feels fragile, balanced on thin ice. The sense of unease has settled into my chest, becoming a familiar ache I carry throughout the day, wondering if he feels it too or if I’m the only one sensing this shift.

I can’t think of the last time he looked at me with any real attention or gave me a kind word. Even when I make an effort to connect—to bridge the distance that seems to widen daily—he barely acknowledges it. I’ve tried to revive what we once had, planning little date nights, wearing his favorite outfit, and asking him questions about his day. But his responses are clipped, his focus elsewhere, and I’m left feeling invisible, like a shadow moving around his life rather than a partner within it.

We’re coexisting in the same space, two people moving around each other in silent routines, but the closeness we once shared has faded into something distant, like an old memory I can barely recall. When I look at him, I miss the version of us that would stay up late talking, sharing dreams and laughing about the most mundane things. Now, it’s as if those days never existed, replaced by this quiet disconnect that’s settled like a fog over our marriage.

I wonder if he’s just as lost as I am, unsure how to break through the silence. Or maybe he’s grown comfortable in it, and I’m the only one feeling the sting of loneliness in a relationship that feels like it’s slipping away. I want to believe there’s a way back to each other, but with every passing day, the silence grows heavier, leaving me to question whether we’re drifting too far apart to ever find our way back.