The Lonely Husband
My name is Michael.
I’ve been married to Clara for twelve years. We used to be happy. We laughed together, we cooked together, we talked for hours about everything.
But lately… it feels like I live with a stranger.
Clara still smiles, but not at me. She still talks, but not to me. She’s always on her phone, typing, hiding the screen when I walk by.
When I ask who she’s texting, she just says, “Just work.”
At first, I believed her. She works in marketing, always connected, always busy. But something feels different now. The warmth in her eyes is gone.
One evening, I came home early. I wanted to surprise her with dinner.
When I opened the door, I heard her laughing. A beautiful laugh I hadn’t heard in months.
I smiled and walked to the kitchen.
But when I stepped inside, she quickly put her phone face down.
“Who were you talking to?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“No one,” she said, too fast. “Just… a funny video.”
She kissed my cheek and changed the subject.
We ate together in silence. The only sound was the ticking clock on the wall.
I wanted to ask again, but I was afraid of the answer.
Days passed.
Every night, Clara sat on the sofa with her phone.
I sat next to her, pretending to watch TV, but she was somewhere else — far away, lost in her messages, smiling at a world I couldn’t enter.
Sometimes, she locked herself in the bathroom for half an hour, just scrolling.
Sometimes, she said she was going out for “a walk” or “a quick call.”
I started to feel invisible. Like a ghost in my own home.
One Friday night, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I asked her, “Clara, are you happy with me?”
She looked at me, surprised. “Of course I am.”
“But you’re different,” I said softly. “You’re distant. You don’t talk to me anymore.”
She sighed. “Michael, I’m just tired. Work is stressful. Please don’t make it worse.”
I wanted to believe her.
I nodded and said nothing.
But deep inside, I knew something had changed — something we couldn’t fix with a simple “I’m tired.”
A week later, we went to dinner with some friends.
Clara looked beautiful — red dress, perfume, that same smile I fell in love with.
But all evening, her phone kept lighting up. She tried to hide it, but I noticed.
When she went to the restroom, her phone buzzed again.
My heart was racing. I knew it was wrong, but I picked it up.
A message appeared:
“Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”
From a name I didn’t know.
My hands were shaking. I put the phone back on the table before she returned.
When she came back, I smiled and pretended nothing happened.
But inside, everything was breaking.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I kept hearing those words — Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.
I thought of all the moments she said she was “working late.”
All the evenings she went for “a walk.”
Maybe it was just a friend. Maybe I was wrong.
But the doubt was already poison in my heart.
The next day, I stayed home from work. I told her I had a headache.
At 6 p.m., she said, “I’m going to the gym.”
She kissed my cheek, grabbed her bag, and left.
Ten minutes later, I followed her.
She wasn’t going to the gym.
She drove across town to a small café. I parked nearby, hidden behind another car.
Through the window, I saw her sitting with a man.
He was maybe in his thirties, dark hair, confident smile.
She laughed. The same laugh I hadn’t heard in months.
She reached across the table and touched his hand.
He touched hers back.
I couldn’t watch anymore. I drove away.
That night, she came home late.
“Did you have a good workout?” I asked quietly.
She froze for a second, then smiled. “Yeah, it was good.”
I nodded. “I’m glad.”
We went to bed without another word.
I stared at the ceiling for hours, feeling a pain I couldn’t describe.
I wanted to scream, to cry, to ask why.
But I just lay there, listening to her soft breathing beside me.
The next morning, she found me in the kitchen making coffee.
She looked tired. “Did you sleep?”
“No,” I said. “I saw you yesterday.”
She stopped. “What do you mean?”
“At the café,” I said. “With him.”
Her eyes filled with tears instantly. “Michael, please—”
“Who is he?” I asked.
She covered her face. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
She was silent for a long time. Then she whispered, “His name is Daniel. We work together. He listens to me. He makes me feel alive again.”
Her voice was shaking.
“I didn’t plan this. I was lonely, Michael. You never talk to me anymore. You’re always quiet, always distant.”
I wanted to argue, to defend myself.
But she was right. We had both stopped talking.
Still, hearing it broke me.
I said, “So this is it?”
She started crying. “I don’t know. I don’t love him. But I don’t know if I love us anymore either.”
I turned away. “Then maybe we both need to decide what we want.”
She nodded slowly.
That night, she slept in the guest room.
Days turned into weeks.
The house felt empty. We spoke only about small things — groceries, bills, appointments — nothing real.
Sometimes, I caught her looking at me like she wanted to say something.
Sometimes, I wanted to ask her to stay.
But pride kept us both silent.
One Sunday morning, I woke up early and went for a walk.
The air was cold, quiet. I thought about the years we had shared — the laughter, the trips, the ordinary mornings that now felt precious.
When I came back home, Clara was sitting at the kitchen table.
A suitcase beside her.
“I’m going to stay with my sister for a while,” she said softly. “I need time.”
I nodded. “I understand.”
She hesitated, then whispered, “I’m sorry, Michael.”
“I know,” I said. “Me too.”
She walked to the door, stopped for a moment, and turned around.
“I did love you,” she said.
Then she left.
That night, the silence was unbearable.
Every corner of the house smelled like her. Her perfume, her hair, her laughter — all still here, but she wasn’t.
I sat on the sofa and stared at her empty cup of tea.
For the first time, I cried.
I realized that loneliness doesn’t come when you’re alone.
It comes when the person you love is right beside you… but their heart is somewhere else.
Months have passed now.
Clara never came back. I heard she moved to another city, started a new job.
Sometimes, I still think of her — not with anger, but with quiet sadness.
I wonder if she ever misses me, even for a moment.
I still keep her favorite mug in the cupboard.
I can’t throw it away.
Because even though she’s gone, a part of me still waits for her.
And maybe, that’s what love really is —
not the happy moments, not the laughter, but the silence that stays after everything ends.
THE END
