07/11/2025
When my husband and I almost fell apart, it didn’t look like how I thought it would.
There were no slammed doors. No screaming matches. No betrayals.
Just… silence.
A quiet, slow drifting we didn’t even realize was happening.
It crept in on ordinary days in the space between loading the dishwasher and collapsing into bed, exhausted.
In the pause between “Hey, can you grab milk tomorrow?” and “Did you switch the laundry?”
One day, he brushed past me in the hallway and flirted like he always did.
And then, one day… he just brushed past me.
We still loved each other. Still showed up.
But somehow, we stopped reaching for each other.
That’s the part no one warns you about not the messy, dramatic endings, but the slow, silent drift.
The season where love starts to feel like a routine.
Where you’re no longer looking at each other, just… coexisting.
Like roommates who used to be soulmates.
That’s where we found ourselves a couple of years ago.
One night, after another long day of being everything to everyone else, he finally asked:
“Is something wrong?”
And I almost said, “No, I’m fine,” because that’s what you do when you don’t want to rock the boat.
But instead, the truth just slipped out:
“I miss us.”
I didn’t say it to hurt him.
I didn’t need flowers or some fancy date night.
I just… missed us.
I missed feeling close.
I missed how he used to touch the small of my back when I cooked.
The way he’d kiss me for no reason at all.
The little things that used to say, I still see you.
We didn’t say much after that. We just climbed into bed. The silence felt heavy.
But then his hand reached for mine under the covers.
The next morning, I got up early, bleary-eyed, and started making breakfast for the kids. Same as always.
As I stood at the stove, scrambling eggs, he came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, kissed my cheek, and whispered:
“I miss us, too. We’re still here.”
And just like that, something shifted.
The spark didn’t come roaring back with fireworks or grand gestures.
It came back quietly, in the kitchen, with his arms around me while I held a dish towel.
It reminded me of something I’ll never forget:
The spark doesn’t die all at once.
It fades little by little in a hundred tiny moments you don’t even notice.
And if you’re not careful, you start to believe the distance means the love is gone.
But it’s not.
Love doesn’t just vanish.
It waits.
It waits to be noticed. To be chosen. To be reached for again, in the quiet, simple moments.
Sometimes, all it takes is one soft kiss in the kitchen, a hand on your back, and two tired people deciding:
We’re still in this.
You’re still worth the reach.
