I Married the Love of My Life, and I Have Never Felt More Alone

If you looked at our Instagram profile, you would probably hate us.
We look perfect. We go on date nights every Friday at the trendiest restaurants. We smile broadly in photos at weddings, our arms wrapped around each other. We hold hands when we walk into parties, projecting the image of a solid, unbreakable unit. Our friends constantly tell me, “You guys are so lucky. You are relationship goals.”
I smile, say thank you, and squeeze his hand.
Then I go home, lock the bathroom door, turn on the shower so he can’t hear me, and sit on the floor in silence because it is the only place I can breathe.
I love my partner. That is not the issue. He is a good man. He works hard to provide for us. He doesn't raise his voice. He is kind to my parents. He remembers anniversaries and buys me flowers on Valentine's Day. On paper, he is everything a woman should want.
But somewhere along the way, we stopped being "soulmates" and started being "roommates."
The loneliness didn't happen overnight. It wasn't a sudden explosion. It was a slow, quiet erosion, like water wearing down a rock.
It started when we stopped asking, “How are you really feeling?” and started asking, “Did you pay the electric bill?”
It started when we stopped talking about our dreams, our fears, and our wild ideas, and started talking only about logistics. Schedules. Groceries. Chores. The maintenance of life took over the living of it.
Now, our evenings are a perfectly choreographed routine. We sit on the same sofa, watching the same TV show, but we are miles apart. He is scrolling on his phone, laughing at videos I can't hear; I am reading a book I don't talk to him about. There is a physical body next to me—warm, breathing, familiar—but the emotional connection feels like a ghost that haunts the house.
There is a specific, sharp kind of pain in this.
When you are single, you expect to be alone. You make peace with the silence. You fill it with friends, hobbies, music, and noise. You own your solitude.
But when you are married, the loneliness feels like a betrayal. You think, “I signed a contract against this feeling. I promised to share my life. Why do I feel so isolated?”
I remember our last anniversary dinner. We were at a beautiful Italian restaurant, surrounded by candlelight.
We ordered our food. We commented on the wine. And then… silence.
I looked at him, desperate for connection. I wanted to talk about how I was feeling anxious about my job, or how I missed painting.
But he was looking around the room, distracted.
“The service is slow tonight,” he muttered.
That was it. That was our conversation. I realized then that he sees me, but he doesn't see me. He sees the wife who manages the house, not the woman who is screaming inside.
I try to talk to him sometimes. I say, “I feel like we’re drifting. I feel lonely.”
He looks confused, genuinely baffled. “What do you mean? We’re fine. We just had dinner together. I’m right here.”
He thinks "presence" is the same thing as "connection." He doesn't understand that you can hold someone’s hand and still can’t feel their heart. He thinks that because we aren't fighting, we are happy. He doesn't realize that the opposite of love isn't hate; it's indifference.
I realized recently that I am grieving. I am grieving the loss of the person who used to look at me across a crowded room and know exactly what I was thinking. Now, I have to explain my sadness to him like I am explaining a complicated math problem, and he still doesn't get the answer.
I am writing this because I know I am not the only one.
I know there are thousands of people reading this right now, sitting next to their spouses on a comfortable couch, feeling completely invisible.
It is a terrifying realization: Being single is lonely. But being with someone who makes you feel alone is shattering.
I don't know if we will fix this. I don't know if couples counseling can bridge a gap this wide. I don't know if we will survive another year.
But I know that I cannot keep pretending.
Tonight, I will turn off the TV. I will put down my phone. I will turn to him and ask a real question. Not about the bills. Not about dinner. But about us.
If he answers, maybe we have a chance.
If he turns away, then at least I will know the truth.
We are taught to fear divorce, to see it as a failure. But perhaps we should fear a loveless, silent marriage even more. Because wasting your life waiting to be seen is the ultimate tragedy.