Lately, life at home has been a heavy fog of silence. My husband, David, has grown distant, and it feels as if the thread holding our marriage together is fraying more each day. I can’t pinpoint when it started—maybe it was gradual, like a slow leak you don’t notice until the foundation is damaged. What I do know is that the warmth we once shared has turned to a cold indifference.

It’s been months since David offered me a compliment. He used to notice when I dressed up or tried something new with my hair. Now, I could wear the same thing for days, and I doubt he’d bat an eye. Even when I make an effort—putting on my favorite dress, cooking his favorite meal—he seems to look right through me, as if I’ve become part of the background. It’s a strange kind of loneliness, being ignored by the person who once made me feel like the center of their world.

We go through the motions: polite small talk over dinner, brief exchanges about bills or errands, but it feels hollow. The silence between us isn’t comfortable anymore; it’s oppressive. I miss the way he used to laugh with me, the way his eyes would light up when he saw me walk into a room. I miss feeling seen, feeling appreciated.

I’ve tried to bring it up, but he brushes it off, saying he’s tired or stressed from work. Maybe that’s true, but it doesn’t make the ache in my chest any smaller. I feel invisible, like a shadow of the woman I used to be. I keep wondering if this is how it ends—not with a fight, but with the slow unraveling of something that was once so beautiful.