We were ever so close when we first married. We did everything together. Wed fall asleep tangled in each others arms, watch telly under the covers, stroll around the park on Sundays, and find ourselves in fits of laughter over the silliest of things. Our intimacy came oftenrarely planned, always spontaneous. I felt cherished, wanted, chosen.
As the years passed, the closeness remained, though it changed shape. The long, lingering kisses faded, replaced by fleeting pecks. The gentle caresses disappeared, giving way to absent-minded touches. We started heading to bed early, worn out, and he would turn his back, already lost to sleep. At first, Id try to bridge the gapId reach for his hand, stroke his arm, search for his palm in the dark. He always muttered that he was tired, that perhaps tomorrow, that the moment wasnt right. I told myself I understood.
Time went on, and nothing shifted. We still shared supper, talked about our day, shared a bed each night, but nothing else changed. I found myself lying there, waiting quietly, hoping he would make the first move. He never did. At first it hurt; soon after, I felt too embarrassed even to ask. I convinced myself perhaps the fault was mine, perhaps I was making too much of things.
Our routines felt intimate, but were utterly mundane. Wed rise together, drink our cups of tea, attend family gatherings arm in arm. Hed share his stories; Id share mine. But in bed, we lay back to back. I started changing my clothes quickly, without care, no longer fussing with my appearance around him. I abandoned my nice nightgowns altogether. I stopped seeing my own body as something anyone could find enticing.
I tried to talk to him about it more than once. I asked if he no longer found me attractive. He insisted that wasnt itthese things happened with age, he said, that love meant companionship and respect. I nodded along, though deep inside me there was a hollow ache, as if something vital was missing, leaving me at a loss for words, laden with guilt for even thinking on it.
Eventually, I accepted it all as normal. I told myself plenty of couples lived this way. That as long as there were no rows, things were well. I became used to hugs only shared in front of others, never when we were alone. I trained myself not to expect anything, not to want, slowly erasing that side of myself so I wouldnt feel the sting of rejection.
Years went by, and outwardly, we were always so very close. Ever together, ever tidy and polite. No one suspected we had gone fifteen years or more without true closeness. Even I had forgotten what it felt like to be truly desired. I had become a habit, a comfort, a fixture. Not a longing.
Then came the day he told me he was leavingwith another woman. I couldnt quite make sense of it. He told me he felt alive with her, wanted, connected. I did not cry out, nor quarrel. He simply told me, and I understood at lasthe hadnt stopped feeling, he had only stopped feeling with me.
Now, looking back, I realise the deepest pain lies not in his leaving, but in how I slowly grew used to living beside someone who no longer looked at me as a woman, and convinced me, too, that this was simply how things are.
