The Silence Between Us

Meher and Faisal had once been madly in love. Everyone said they were the perfect couple—always laughing, always holding hands, always together. Their wedding had been simple but beautiful, and they had built their life slowly, piece by piece, with dreams held in their joined palms.

But love, as Meher later learned, is not always loud. Sometimes it gets quiet. Sometimes it fades—not with a fight, but with silence.

At first, it was little things. Faisal came home later than usual. He’d sit in front of the TV with his phone, not even noticing Meher was in the room. He stopped asking how her day was. Stopped hugging her goodnight. And Meher, tired of being the only one trying, stopped asking him why.

They lived like roommates. Polite. Distant. Empty.

Meher cooked his favorite dishes—he barely touched them. She wore the perfume he loved—he didn’t notice. She decorated the house, cleaned, and smiled, hoping he would too. But he never did. Instead, he blamed stress from work, said he was tired, said she was being too sensitive.

One night, Meher gathered her courage and said, “Faisal… are you happy?”

He didn’t even look up. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because you don’t talk to me anymore.”

He sighed. “We’ve been married for five years, Meher. Not everything has to be like a fairy tale.”

“I don’t need a fairy tale,” she whispered. “I just need you.”

But he didn’t respond. He just left the room.

The fights started small and built up. They argued about everything—money, in-laws, missed dinners, undone chores. But underneath all those arguments, there was just one truth: they were growing apart. And neither of them knew how to fix it.

Meher began writing in a journal, pouring her sadness into paper when she couldn’t say it out loud. Every night, she wrote a letter to the husband she missed—the man who used to bring her roses without reason, who once danced with her in the kitchen. The man who used to love her with his eyes, his words, his heart.

One day, Meher found messages on Faisal’s phone—harmless, maybe, but enough to sting. Flirting with a coworker. Late-night chats. Laughter she hadn’t heard in months. Her hands shook as she scrolled. Her heart broke, silently.

That night, she didn’t confront him. She just cried quietly into her pillow while he snored beside her.

The next morning, she made breakfast. She placed the food in front of him and said, “We’re broken, Faisal.”

He looked at her, finally seeing the pain in her eyes. “So what do you want? A divorce?”

She stared at him for a moment, tears in her eyes. “No. I want you to fight for us.”

But he didn’t answer.

She waited days. Weeks. Nothing changed. He didn’t cheat, not truly—but he had emotionally left the marriage, and she was the only one still holding on.

Finally, one rainy evening, Meher packed a small bag. She placed her journal on the bed, where he could see it, and left.

She didn’t go far—just to her mother’s house. But in that small space of distance, she found air. She breathed. She healed. Slowly.

Three days later, Faisal called.

“I read your journal,” he said. His voice was different. Softer. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in so much pain?”

“I did,” Meher replied gently. “You just didn’t listen.”

He was quiet.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” she continued. “I just needed to feel like I mattered again.”

“I miss you,” he whispered.

“I miss *us,*” she said. “But missing is not enough, Faisal. You have to *try.* Love isn’t just saying the words. It’s showing up. Every day.”

He came to see her the next day. Not with flowers, but with tearful eyes and a trembling voice. He held her hand like it was the first time. And this time, when she asked if he would fight for them, he said yes.

They went to therapy. They started small. Talking again. Eating together. Walking without phones in their hands. It was not easy—but it was honest.

And slowly, the silence that once stood between them became words again. Laughter. Apologies. Promises.

They weren’t perfect. But they were trying.

The End