When we first got married, we were as thick as thieves. We did everything together. Wed fall asleep tangled up, binge telly in bed, ramble through the park on Sundays, and snort with laughter over absolutely nothing. Affection was a daily occurrence rarely scheduled, mostly a delightful surprise. I felt adored, wanted, chosen.
But, you know, years have a knack for shuffling the deck a bit. We stayed close, just differently. The long, lingering kisses faded into brisk, fleeting pecks. Tenderness became routine shoulder taps. Bedtime crept earlier, weighed down by exhaustion, and hed simply turn his back and drift off. In the beginning, Id scoot closer. Id reach out for his hand or brush his arm, searching for that warmth. Hed mumble he was tired, maybe tomorrow, now wasnt a good time. And fair enough I understood.
Time ticked along, and nothing changed. We still ate dinner together, had chats about the day, shared a bed. Only, nothing actually happened. I started lying there silently, hoping hed reach for me first. That never quite materialised. At first, it stung. Then I felt embarrassed to press. Maybe it was me, maybe I was being dramatic.
Our routine was hopelessly civilised, but entirely passionless. We woke up side by side, brewed coffee for two, showed up at family gatherings in step. Hed natter about his work, Id rabbit on about mine. Back to back wed sleep. I started changing in front of him as quickly as possible, giving up on pretty pyjamas. Eventually, I stopped seeing my own body as something anyone could actually fancy.
I tried broaching the subject a few times. Asked him, tentatively, if he didnt fancy me anymore. He said no, it wasnt that, just that he didnt feel like it nowadays, these things happen, love is more about partnership and respect with age and all that. I nodded, though a hollow feeling gnawed at me, like something important had slipped away, but I couldnt quite put it into words without feeling daft.
After a while, I convinced myself this was normal. Plenty of couples live like this, dont they? No arguments, so surely its fine. I got used to public hugs only, never private touches. I stopped waiting. Stopped wanting. Quietly erased that part of myself, so I wouldnt risk rejection.
The years marched by, and still, everyone thought we were so close. Always together, always so jolly and proper. No one suspected wed gone over fifteen years without real intimacy. Honestly, I forgot what it meant to feel like a woman beside someone. I became habit, support, reliable company just not desire.
The day he told me he was leaving for another woman, I didnt even flinch. He told me he felt alive with her, wanted, connected. I didnt shout. I didnt even argue. He just said it. And thats when I realised: he hadnt stopped feeling hed just stopped feeling with me.
Looking back now, I see the thing that cut the deepest wasnt him leaving. It was, quite simply, learning to exist beside someone who stopped looking at me as a woman and convincing me, gently but thoroughly, that that was normal.
