It’s been tough lately. My husband, David, has been distant, and our marriage feels like it’s hanging by a thread. I can’t remember the last time he complimented me or even noticed when I made an effort. It’s like we’re just going through the motions, and it’s left me feeling invisible and unappreciated.

The signs started small, subtle enough to brush off at first. The way his goodnight kisses grew more perfunctory, how he barely looked up from his phone during dinner, and how conversations about our day turned into one-word responses. I’d ask, How was work? and he’d mutter, Fine, without even glancing in my direction.

At first, I tried to ignore it. I told myself he was just stressed. Work had been demanding for him lately, and maybe he was too exhausted to engage. But as weeks turned into months, the distance between us felt less like a temporary storm and more like a widening canyon.

I started making more of an effort, hoping to bridge the gap. I bought a new dress in his favorite color, spent extra time doing my hair and makeup before date nights, and even surprised him with a home-cooked meal of all his favorites. But when he walked through the door that evening, his response was a brief, Smells good, before retreating to his office.

It stung. I had spent hours preparing, hoping to see his eyes light up the way they used to when we first got married. But instead, he barely noticed. I remember standing in the kitchen, staring at the table I had set so carefully, wondering if I’d ever feel seen by him again.

I couldn’t help but compare it to how things used to be. When we first met, David was so attentive, so full of life and charm. He’d surprise me with little notes in my lunchbox or text me in the middle of the day just to say he missed me. I used to feel like the center of his world, but now I feel like an afterthought.

I’ve started questioning myself more than I’d like to admit. Am I not attractive anymore? Am I boring? Am I too much—or not enough? The insecurities I thought I’d buried long ago have resurfaced, each one whispering that maybe I’m the problem.

Sometimes, late at night, I lie awake beside him, listening to the soft rhythm of his breathing, and wonder if he feels the distance too. Does he miss me the way I miss him? Or has he already checked out of our marriage without telling me?

There was one particular evening that broke me. We were watching TV together—a show we used to binge-watch religiously. I turned to make a comment about one of the characters, something I thought he’d laugh at, but he didn’t even look at me. He just grunted in response, his eyes glued to the screen. In that moment, it hit me: I was lonely, even when I was sitting right next to him.

I tried bringing it up once. I asked him if he thought we were okay, if he was happy. He looked at me, startled, as if the question had come out of nowhere.

“Of course I’m happy,” he said, his tone defensive. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

But the way he avoided my eyes told me otherwise.

I’ve been carrying this weight on my shoulders, unsure of how to fix something that feels so broken. Part of me wants to shake him, to demand he tell me what’s changed, why he’s pulling away. But another part of me is scared of what he might say.

What if it’s me? What if he’s fallen out of love?

And so, I’ve been stuck in this limbo, waiting for a sign, a spark, anything to show me that there’s still something worth fighting for. But as the days turn into weeks, I can’t help but wonder if I’m fighting this battle alone.