Before the wedding, he carried me in his arms. Afterward, it was like he’d fallen out of love.
When I first met James, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. He was the kind of man you read about in romance novels—attentive, affectionate, doting. He didn’t just ask about my day; he lived for it. Endless calls: *”How are you feeling?” “Did you dress warm enough?” “Have you eaten today?”* If the sky darkened with rain, he’d be outside my office with an umbrella before the first drop fell. Every morning, a fresh bouquet waited on my desk—tulips, roses, daisies. My colleagues were green with envy. I couldn’t believe my luck.
He wrapped me in warmth. Late-night walks, hand in hand, chatting about nothing like a pair of teenagers. Then came the proposal—classic, on one knee, with a ring, in the little café where we’d had our first date. He even traveled to meet my parents in Manchester—that’s how serious he was. I floated on air, as if I wasn’t living my life but starring in some perfect rom-com.
But the fairy tale ended the moment we left the registry office.
At first, the changes were subtle. The morning texts vanished. The *”How’s my love?”* phone calls stopped. The flowers disappeared without a trace. His kisses turned mechanical, like he was ticking a chore off a list instead of showing affection. Before, he couldn’t take his eyes off me. Now? I might as well be part of the wallpaper.
And at home? He checked out. The man who once grabbed the toolbox first, who insisted on fixing everything, now just sighed: *”Call a handyman.”* Or worse: *”You wanted it done—you do it.”* Dishes piled up, the floor went unswept, and hammering in a nail became a full-blown crisis—funny, considering he’d bragged before the wedding that he could build a house with his bare hands.
I don’t get it. I haven’t changed. Still the same—toned, well-kept, pretty. Men still glance my way on the street. But him? Like I’m background noise. Just another piece of furniture.
Mum says, *”That’s marriage for you. The registry office isn’t about romance. Be grateful he’s got a job, pays the bills. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t stray. Count your blessings.”* But I can’t. I won’t settle for a man who just *exists* next to me. I want to feel loved. Not just comfortably installed.
Last night, I watched him. He didn’t notice. Glued to his phone, scrolling, grinning at the screen. My stomach twisted: *What if there’s someone else?* Is that why he’s cold? Why he’s checked out? Has he betrayed me?
I don’t want to believe it. But what if I’m right?
How do I even talk to him? How do I drag the truth out? I love him—stupidly, hopelessly. I won’t hand him over to another woman. But I don’t think I could forgive cheating, either.
Girls who’ve been here—what do I do? When your husband before and after the wedding are two different men? When you feel like you’re just part of the decor in his life? I don’t know. But I can’t stay quiet anymore.
