Desire fades quietly. It doesn't vanish all at once — it slips away in pieces, unnoticed at first, until one day you realize that the warmth that once felt endless has gone cold.
Marriage, I learned, moves in phases. There are the passionate beginnings, when every word feels electric and every touch burns like discovery. Then comes comfort — the steady rhythm of familiarity.And somewhere after that, if you're not careful, comes the silence.
By then, we had been married for years. Life had happened. Work consumed most of my time, and the exhaustion that came with it left little room for anything else.The spark that once lit every night had dimmed, not because love had died, but because life had gotten too loud.
She had more time than I did, but even she seemed to stop trying.There was a time when she used to surprise me — small notes, unexpected hugs, laughter that made the house feel alive.But now, our conversations revolved around bills, chores, and sleep.
We still went out sometimes — dinners, movies, small escapes — but less often, and always out of habit more than desire.Something in her eyes told me she carried a quiet sadness, a thought she'd never say aloud:
"I met you too young. I never really got to live before I became someone's wife."
I couldn't blame her. In truth, I felt the same.
Between us grew a silence that wasn't born from anger, but from absence.We shared a bed, a home, a routine — but not the same dreams anymore.It was like standing next to someone you love, separated by an invisible glass wall.
Sometimes, I would lie awake at night, looking at her as she slept beside me, wondering where the version of us from the beginning had gone.I missed her laughter. I missed feeling desired.But most of all, I missed us.
And that longing — that hunger for something new, something to make me feel alive again — began to whisper in my ear.Not as temptation, but as loneliness disguised as curiosity.
I didn't know it yet, but that whisper was the beginning of a storm.