The Day We Stopped Talking — And Started Listening

The Silence That Grew Between Us

It had been three months since Ayaan and I had spoken properly. We exchanged the necessary words — “Dinner’s ready,” “I’ll be late,” “Pass me that” — but the warmth was gone. It wasn’t anger anymore; it was something colder… something emptier.

I used to believe that love could survive anything, but I learned that neglect was far more dangerous than arguments. Arguments, at least, meant you cared enough to fight. Silence meant you’d stopped trying.


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A Wedding… But Not Ours

One evening, we were invited to Ayaan’s cousin’s wedding. I dreaded going. Weddings were meant for laughter and togetherness — two things we had misplaced. But for family’s sake, we went.

I wore a pale blue dress he had once said was his favorite. I don’t know why — maybe I wanted to see if it still meant anything to him. He barely glanced my way.

The wedding was loud with music, laughter, and clinking cups of chai. I kept my distance, sitting with the women, while Ayaan mingled with the men. My smile felt heavy.


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An Unseen Moment

Later that night, as the wedding winded down, I slipped away to the quieter garden outside. The fairy lights cast a soft glow over the roses. I thought I was alone, but then I heard a voice — familiar, yet softened in a way I hadn’t heard in months.

It was Ayaan. He was on the phone, speaking quietly, but I could hear enough.

“…Alhamdulillah she’s fine. Please make dua for her. She’s been carrying so much burden silently. I wish I could make it easier. Pray that Allah gives me the wisdom to be a better husband to her.”

My breath caught. He wasn’t talking about anyone else. He was talking about me.


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The Cracks in My Heart

I had imagined that Ayaan no longer cared. That his silence meant indifference. But here he was, asking for duas for me, acknowledging my struggles… even blaming himself.

I realized then how dangerous assumptions could be. I had been building walls, brick by brick, not knowing he was on the other side trying to find a way in.


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When We Finally Spoke

That night, after we came home, I poured us both tea. We sat across from each other, the air still heavy but different now. I broke the silence first.

“I overheard you tonight,” I said softly. “In the garden.”

His eyes widened slightly. “You did?”

“Yes,” I nodded, my voice trembling. “I didn’t know you… still felt that way.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know how to tell you. Every time I tried, it felt like you wouldn’t want to hear it. So I stayed quiet… and I guess that made things worse.”

I swallowed hard. “We stopped listening to each other, Ayaan. Maybe we were both waiting for the other to start.”

For the first time in months, his eyes met mine and stayed there. “Then let’s start now.”


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The Night That Changed Us

We talked for hours — not about chores, not about bills, but about fears, dreams, and faith. He told me he had been under pressure at work and didn’t want to burden me. I told him I felt invisible and lonely in his silence.

By the time the night ended, we weren’t “fixed” — marriage isn’t that simple. But we had found the courage to face the silence together.


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Moral Reflection

Marriage isn’t sustained by grand gestures alone. Sometimes, the most life-changing act is simply listening.

We often assume the worst when communication breaks, but silence doesn’t always mean absence of love. Sometimes, it hides unspoken pain, pride, or fear. As Muslims, we are taught that marriage is a trust — not just of bodies, but of hearts. Allah reminds us in the Qur’an:

"And We created you in pairs… so that you may find tranquility in one another." (Surah Ar-Rum 30:21)

Tranquility doesn’t come from never facing hardship — it comes from standing together in it. If your spouse has gone quiet, don’t just wait for them to speak. Step closer. Ask. Listen. Pray together.

Because one day, you may find that the only thing standing between love and loss… is a conversation.