She’s been silent for a week now… What should I do if she’s pushing me away and hiding the truth?
Mila and I have lived together for three years. Never once did I doubt my feelings for her during this time. I believed she was the one worth changing plans and habits for. We rented a flat, settled down, and discussed the future. We even stopped using contraceptives because we both understood we were more than just a couple—we were a family. I dreamt of becoming three one day.
But this week, anxiety crept into my life. It all happened by chance. Mila asked me to get a lighter from her handbag, and as usual, without thinking, I reached inside. I’d never invaded her personal space—neither her bag nor her phone. Respect is the foundation of love. But just then, the bag slipped from my hands, spilling its contents on the floor, and among them was a slim folder with test results, medical papers from a private clinic, stamped and dated recently.
When she returned to the room and saw it, something instantly closed off in her. She turned pale and grabbed the documents as if they were a weapon I had pulled against her. She didn’t ask, didn’t explain, just withdrew. And from that moment—silence. No word on doctors or about what happened. The week dragged by in oppressive silence.
I’m afraid to ask questions. Not because I don’t want to know the truth, but because she might flare up and run away from the conversation. That’s her nature—if you push, she clams up like an oyster. I don’t want arguments. I crave closeness—the kind that only exists between people who trust each other.
Could she be ill? Unsure how to tell me? Maybe the test showed something frightening? Or… maybe, on the contrary, she’s pregnant and wanted to surprise me? Or, worse—what if it’s not my child? My mind spins with speculation. I don’t recognize Mila’s glances or steps. She used to share everything with me, laughed, and joked around. Now, she feels like a stranger.
I’m not just her boyfriend. I’m the one who made plans with her, who wanted to be the father of her children. And if she’s hiding something, it hurts because I’ve never deceived her. From the very start, I said, “Betray me, and I’ll leave. No shouting, no revenge. I’ll simply disappear.”
I never eavesdropped, checked her phones, or interrogated her. I believed. But now, silence is the worst torture. Every day feels like walking through a minefield. She acts like everything’s fine: making coffee, folding laundry, smiling at the neighbour. But with me—silence. Light as a whisper, burning like acid.
Yesterday, I tried to talk to her, began gently with a joke as I do, and asked if she fancied a walk along the riverside like old times. She replied, “I have a headache,” and withdrew into herself again.
I’m terrified of making a wrong move. One careless word, and I might lose her. But I haven’t the strength to wait any longer. At night, I lie next to her, listen to her breathing, and pray she’ll become the woman I love again. That we’ll be us—not me and a wall between us.
Perhaps you’ll say, “Just ask.” But how? How do you tell the woman you love, “I feel you’re hiding something, and it scares me”? How do you approach it in such a way that she doesn’t think I’m accusing her but understands—I’m worried? That my heart is trembling with fear that something’s wrong with her.
I don’t want to be another man who pressures, shouts, and breaks things. I want to be her support. But how can I be, if she won’t let me in? What do you do when silence, not distance, separates two people?
I love her. I love her painfully. I want to believe this is just fear. That soon, she’ll hold me and say, “I just got confused.” But what if it’s something else? Can I forgive? Can I forget? Or will this be the moment when “we” becomes “once were”?
