I’m 35, and my name doesn’t matter—call me a ghost if you like, because that’s what I feel like. I’m not writing this for fame or pity; I’m writing it as a desperate warning to every man out there: brothers, don’t marry a woman you don’t love! It’s a road paved with hope that leads straight to hell—a slow, suffocating torment that gnaws at your soul day after day.
I used to think time would fix it, that I’d grow to love her, that the old saying “you’ll get used to it and it’ll turn into love” would magically come true. But it didn’t. I respect my wife—let’s call her Sarah—but that’s where it ends. She’s a friend, a companion, nothing more. There’s no spark, no fire, no longing. She’s not a woman to me in the way a husband should see his wife, and that truth is a jagged blade twisting in my chest every single day.
Years ago, there was someone else—let’s call her Lily. For her, I would’ve torn the world apart. I sold my beat-up truck, my pride and joy, just to buy her a sleek motorcycle—her wildest dream, a machine that roared with the same untamed spirit she carried in her bones. Together, we opened a little surf shop in Santa Cruz, a place where the ocean breeze tangled with our laughter. She was a storm—restless, adventurous, a firecracker with a temper that could light up the sky. We were perfect together, two reckless souls riding the same wave. Eight years we spent in an unofficial marriage—no rings, no papers, just us. I couldn’t imagine life with anyone else. One night, under the stars on a cliff overlooking the Pacific, I dropped to one knee and asked her to be mine forever. She didn’t say yes, didn’t say no—just stared at me with those wild eyes. Then, one morning over coffee, she shattered me: “I’m leaving. I met someone else. We’re moving to Costa Rica.” My world collapsed, the ground swallowed me whole, and I was left drowning in the wreckage.
People say men don’t cry. Maybe not, but we bleed inside. That year after she left is a blur—a fog of pain so thick I barely remember how I survived. I stumbled through life like a machine: wake up, work, eat, sleep, repeat. Weekends were the worst—I’d drive out to the redwoods, sit under those towering trees, and stare into nothing, lost in a void I couldn’t escape.
Then came Sarah. I married her, a woman I’d always seen as just a friend. I never loved her—not then, not now. We’ve been husband and wife for barely a year, but we go way back. When I was still with Lily, Sarah and I used to run in the same circles—hiking trips in Yosemite, late-night bonfires by Lake Tahoe. She was married to someone else back then, and our chats were casual, nothing deep. But I could feel her eyes linger on me sometimes, a quiet warmth I brushed off.
After Lily ripped my heart out, I ran into Sarah by chance on a rainy day in San Francisco, waiting for the same bus. We grabbed a drink at some dingy bar, and I poured out my misery over a whiskey I barely tasted. She listened, and after that, she started checking in—random calls, little updates. Soon, we were hanging out more: coffee shops, movie theaters, walks along the piers. It was easy, platonic, safe.
Then one evening, she called and dropped a bomb: “I’m divorced now. Free.” From that moment, her attention sharpened, her kindness edged with something more. I didn’t fight it—I was too broken to push back. Sarah’s incredible—beautiful, steady, thoughtful, the kind of person you can count on. She dreams of a quiet life: a house with kids, a golden retriever, Sunday dinners by candlelight. I don’t hate that picture, but it’s not me. I’m wired for chaos, for freedom—I could pack a bag in five minutes and bolt to Iceland or the Sahara without a second thought. Sarah? She needs a spreadsheet, a plan, a month to psych herself up for a weekend camping trip. I think she pretended at first, tried to mirror my restlessness to win me over. But you can’t fake your soul forever—her true colors shone through, and now I’m stranded, Caught between who I am and who she wants me to be.
I owe her everything. She dragged me out of that black pit when I was a shell of a man, barely breathing. No one forced me into this—I let her affection pull me in, let myself cross the line from friendship to marriage. Now I sit in our kitchen, watching her chop vegetables for dinner, and I wonder: how do I keep going? How do I fake a smile when my heart’s a graveyard?
Sarah’s too good for this lie. She doesn’t deserve a husband who looks at her and feels nothing but guilt. I don’t want to break her, don’t want to see tears stain that gentle face. But how long can I keep this up? A week? A year? A lifetime? Every time she laughs or brushes my arm, I’m crushed by the weight of my own betrayal—trapped in a role I despise, playing a part in a tragedy I wrote myself. Is this what life is now—living for her happiness, for the neighbors’ nods, for the sake of “normal”? I don’t know. All I know is this silent war inside me is eating me alive.
Maybe one day I’ll find a way out, a path through this fog of duty and emptiness. Or maybe I’ll stay here, a prisoner of my own choices, forever torn between loyalty and the ghost of what could’ve been. But hear me, men: don’t marry if your heart doesn’t sing. A loveless marriage isn’t a union—it’s a sentence, a slow death I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy
