Before we got married, he treated me like a queen—afterwards, it was as if he’d fallen out of love.
When I first met James, I thought I’d won the lottery. He was the kind of man you read about in romance novels—attentive, tender, devoted. He didn’t just care about me; he lived for me. Calls every day: *How are you feeling? Did you wear a coat? Have you eaten?* If the sky darkened and rain started, he’d be waiting outside my office with an umbrella. Every morning, a fresh bouquet sat on my desk—lilies one day, roses the next, daisies after that. My coworkers were jealous, and I couldn’t believe my luck.
He wrapped me in warmth. We’d stroll through London at night, hand in hand, chatting about nothing, giddy as children. Then he proposed—classic, down on one knee, in the café where we’d had our first date in Manchester. He even insisted on meeting my parents in Birmingham—proof of how serious he was. I floated through those days as if I were living in a film, my own love story.
But the fairytale ended the moment we left the registry office.
At first, the changes were subtle. The morning texts vanished. The *How are you, love?* calls stopped. The flowers disappeared as if they’d never existed. His kisses became routine, like an obligation rather than affection. Once, he couldn’t take his eyes off me—now, I barely registered.
And at home? He withdrew completely. Where he once fixed things without a second thought, now it was always, *Call a handyman if it’s that important*—or worse, *You wanted this—you deal with it.* He wouldn’t wash a dish, sweep the floor, or even hammer in a nail without a sigh. And yet, before the wedding, he’d boasted he could build a house with his bare hands.
I don’t understand what happened. I haven’t changed. I’m still the same—slim, put-together, attractive. Men still glance my way on the street. But him? It’s as if I’ve become invisible. As if I’m just… ordinary. Unremarkable.
My mum says, *They’re all like that. Marriage isn’t about romance—it’s about stability. He works, pays the bills, doesn’t drink or stray. Be grateful for what you have.* But I can’t accept that. I won’t settle for a man who shares my space but not my life. I want to feel wanted—not just tolerated.
Last night, I caught him smiling at his phone, scrolling, absorbed in something. A cold thought twisted inside me: *What if there’s someone else?* Maybe that’s why he’s distant—why he barely touches me anymore. The idea guts me, but—what if it’s true?
I don’t want to believe it. But I can’t ignore the doubt.
How do I even ask him? How do I drag the truth into the light? I still love him. Despite everything, I do. The thought of another woman makes me sick—but so does the idea of forgiving betrayal. Has anyone else been through this? How do you cope when the man you married becomes a stranger overnight? How do you stop feeling like just another piece of furniture in his life? I don’t know what to do—but I can’t stay silent.
Maybe love isn’t about grand gestures, but it shouldn’t feel like neglect either. Sometimes the hardest truth isn’t discovering you’ve lost someone—it’s realizing they never truly saw you to begin with.
