When Love Turns into Loneliness

We used to talk about everything.

From which suya joint had the best pepper to what kind of house we’d raise our kids in one day. There was a time Kunle couldn’t go five minutes without saying something to make me laugh. I still remember how he once stopped in the middle of traffic, leaned across the seat, and kissed me like the whole world had gone still.

But now?

Now we sit across from each other at dinner and barely exchange words. He’s glued to his phone, scrolling, tapping, chuckling sometimes—but never at me, never with me.

It hurts more than I can say.

It’s funny how silence can be so loud.

Our home is full of it. The kind of silence that isn't peaceful—just... empty. Cold. We move around each other like furniture—present but unnoticed. I make his meals, iron his shirts, ask how his day was.

“Same,” he always replies.

That’s it.

I wait for him to ask about mine, but he never does. And I stopped expecting it a long time ago.

I still remember the little things that used to mean the world. Like how he’d text me just to say he missed me. Or how he’d pull me close in bed at night, whispering about the future. Now, his back is always turned. The warmth is gone. His body is there, but his heart… it’s somewhere else.

I tried to bring us back.

One day I cooked his favorite—ayamase stew with white rice, just the way his mum used to make it. He barely looked up from his phone, muttered a thank-you, and that was that. No smile. No “this is delicious.” Just… silence.

And yet, I kept trying. Trying to fix something that only I seemed to notice was broken.

A few weeks ago, I found our old photo album while cleaning.

We looked so happy. Genuinely happy.

There was one picture of us at Tarkwa Bay, grinning with coconut water in hand. I remember that day so clearly—how we got sunburnt and laughed about it for weeks. I held up the photo and showed it to him.

“Do you remember this day?” I asked, a little too eagerly.

He glanced at it. “Yeah… nice trip.”

Then he looked away.

My heart sank.

That one moment told me everything. He was slipping away. Or maybe… he had already left. Just not physically.

It’s one thing to be single. It’s another thing entirely to be in a relationship and still feel alone.

I’d lie in bed at night and wonder what I did wrong. Did I stop being enough for him? Was it my weight? My job stress? My exhaustion?

Or was it just that he stopped trying?

I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want drama. I just wanted us back. But how do you rebuild something when the other person doesn't even see it's falling apart?

One night, I asked him—quietly, carefully—if he still loved me.

He didn’t answer at first. Just stared at his hands like he was trying to find the right words inside them.

Then he said, “I don’t know. Maybe not the same way.”

I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout.

I just nodded, stood up, and walked to the bedroom. My whole body felt hollow. Like something had been scooped out of me and thrown away.

For days after that, we barely spoke.

He came home late. I stopped cooking. We were just… existing. Not living. Not together.

And so, one morning, I wrote a letter. Nothing dramatic. Just honest.

“I feel invisible in this house. I feel like I’m shouting underwater and no one’s listening. I’ve been trying to hold us together, but I’m the only one with glue on my hands. I love you—but I’m drowning here.”

I left it on the table. Packed a small bag. And left.

No goodbyes. No “see you later.” Just space.

I went to a quiet guesthouse on the mainland. It wasn’t fancy. But the silence there was different—it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t lonely. It was mine.

He texted me once.

Kunle: “Where are you?”

Me: “Somewhere I can breathe.”

No reply after that.

I stayed there for two weeks. Cried a lot. Slept even more. And for the first time in a long time, I looked at myself in the mirror—not to criticize what I saw, but to recognize her.

The girl who gave so much of herself. Who stayed when it hurt. Who loved even when it was lonely.

And I told her: You deserve better than this.

When I went back home, it wasn’t to stay. I came to pack the rest of my things.

Kunle was there. Sitting on the edge of the couch like he was waiting for a verdict.

“You’re really leaving?” he asked.

“I already left,” I said. “This… is just the last step.”

He looked smaller somehow. Not physically. But in that way people do when they finally realize what they lost.

“I’m sorry, Ada,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to lose you.”

I nodded. “Neither did I. But love can’t survive on memories alone. And I can’t keep begging to be seen.”

He didn’t try to stop me. Maybe deep down, he knew it was too late.

I moved into a one-bedroom apartment not far from work.

Nothing fancy. But peaceful. I started sleeping better. Started painting again—something I hadn’t done in years. I went out with friends. Learned how to cook for one without feeling sad about it.

Sometimes I still miss him. You don’t stop loving someone overnight. But I no longer miss being ignored.

I miss who we used to be. But not what we became.

A few weeks ago, I walked past a young couple laughing at a roadside suya spot. She was feeding him a piece, and he made a face and laughed so loud people turned.

I smiled.

Because I used to have that. And now I know—I can have it again. Maybe not with Kunle. But with someone who sees me. Hears me. Holds me in the silence, not away from it.

Until then, I’ve got myself.

And for now, that’s enough.

THE END