von We don’t fight anymore.
And I know that’s supposed to be a good thing. I mean, isn’t that what we’re all aiming for? Less arguing? Less tension? More peace?
But the truth is — it doesn’t feel like peace. It feels like nothing.
There used to be noise. Not screaming, not chaos — but something. Raised voices over stupid things. “Why didn’t you text me back?” “You always leave the dishes.” “Can’t you just help without being asked?” Little arguments that sparked, then burned out, followed by apology, laughter, reconnection. There was heat, even if it was messy.
Now there’s just… quiet.
I used to roll my eyes when people talked about “growing apart.” It sounded so vague, so movie-script fake. But now I understand it. It’s not a dramatic explosion. It’s slow. Quiet. A slow drift that you barely feel until you look up and realize the distance between you has grown.
We don’t fight. But we don’t talk about anything real either. We talk about logistics. Groceries. School pick-ups. What to watch on Netflix. The dog’s vet appointment. But we don’t talk about us. About how we’re doing. About how we feel.
And honestly? I’m scared.
There’s a kind of safety in conflict. If you’re fighting, at least you still care enough to fight. At least there’s something you’re both pushing up against. Something you’re trying to fix or defend or argue your way through. But this? This weird, gentle silence we live in now? It’s terrifying. Because it feels like resignation. Like we’ve both just… given up on trying.
I don’t even remember the last time he looked at me the way he used to. Not with lust or longing — but even with curiosity. Like he saw me. Really saw me. The way he used to when we first fell in love, when every detail about me was new and fascinating and worth exploring.
Now I think he sees me like furniture. Familiar. Functional. There. I catch him watching TV, or scrolling on his phone, or folding laundry, and I wonder: Does he miss me too? Or is this enough for him now?
I don’t know when the switch happened.
Maybe it was after the kids came, and everything started revolving around nap times and snack containers and who changed the last diaper. Maybe it was the stress — the kind that builds quietly over years: money, family, careers that didn’t go as planned. Maybe we were just too tired. Too busy surviving to keep reaching for each other.
There wasn’t a big fight. No betrayal. No dramatic “I can’t do this anymore.” Just a slow retreat. A pulling back. One day I realized that we go to bed and barely say goodnight. We don’t touch unless it’s practical — a brush of fingers when passing the baby, a quick kiss before work. And even that feels more like habit than desire.
I still love him. That’s the strangest part. I love him with a quiet, loyal ache that lives in my chest every day. He’s a good man. A good father. He works hard. He means well. He hasn’t done anything wrong — and neither have I, really. And yet here we are, living side by side like friendly strangers.
Sometimes I wonder if he feels it too. Or if he’s content in this quiet. I’ve tried to bring it up a few times — lightly, gently — but he deflects. “We’re just busy right now.” “This is normal.” “Things are fine, aren’t they?”
Fine.
God, I hate that word.
Because “fine” is the word you use when things are not fine, but you don’t have the energy to unpack it.
“Fine” is what you say when you’re afraid that asking for more makes you ungrateful. That questioning the state of your relationship will open a door you don’t know how to close.
But I don’t want fine. I want real. I want connection. I want passion — even if it’s messy. I want to feel something when he touches me, or says my name, or walks into the room.
I miss missing him.
I miss the butterflies.
I miss the long talks in the car after dinner.
I miss laughing so hard we couldn’t breathe.
I miss arguing about music. About politics. About where to order takeout. Because at least then we were engaged. At least then we were showing up.
Now we just… exist.
And that scares me more than any fight ever could.
I think sometimes we assume that if we’re not actively in crisis, then things are okay. That as long as no one’s cheating, or yelling, or storming out, then we’re doing well. But there’s another kind of danger — the quiet kind. The kind where you stop showing up emotionally. The kind where you become roommates. Co-parents. Project managers of your shared life, but not lovers. Not partners. Not a team.
I don’t know what the answer is. I don’t even know where to begin. Therapy, maybe. A long, hard conversation. A weekend away with no kids and no phones. Or maybe just a single moment of honesty, where one of us says, “Hey… I miss you.”
I don’t know if he’d say it back.
But I hope he would.
Because I think there’s still something here. I really do. Under the dust and routine and tiredness, I think there’s still love. Still potential. Still something worth fighting for.
And maybe that’s the first step — remembering that it is worth fighting for.
That silence doesn’t have to mean the end.
That peace isn’t the same thing as numbness.
That we don’t have to stay stuck in neutral forever.
Sometimes I think about our early days. The way he used to reach for my hand in the car, without thinking. The way we used to stay up late talking about everything. The way he’d make me laugh just by looking at me a certain way. And I wonder — is that gone? Or just buried?
Maybe we’re both afraid to dig.
Maybe we don’t know how.
Maybe we forgot where we left each other.
But I believe in us. Even now. Even in this weird, quiet season. I believe that two people who once knew each other so deeply can find their way back. I believe that it’s not too late.
And maybe that’s the real scary part — not that we don’t fight anymore, but that deep down, I still care so much. That I still want more. That I’m still hoping he does too.
So I’ll keep showing up.
Even if it’s awkward. Even if it’s slow.
I’ll reach.
I’ll ask.
I’ll speak — even into the silence.
Because love is worth that.
Even quiet love.
Especially quiet love.
— Jessica
