Chapter 1 Fractures in a Marriage

# Chapter 1: Fractures in a Marriage

The silence between us had become tangible, like a third person at our dining table. Julian sat across from me, his eyes fixed on his phone, scrolling through emails that apparently couldn't wait until morning. The soft clink of my fork against the plate seemed obscenely loud in our quiet apartment.

I studied my husband's face—the strong jawline that once made my heart race, the deep-set eyes that used to look at me with such intensity. Now, they were distant, focused on anything but me. Five years of marriage had transformed us from passionate lovers into polite roommates.

"How was your day?" I asked, desperate to break the suffocating silence.

Julian looked up briefly. "Fine. Busy. The Henderson account is proving difficult." Then his eyes dropped back to his phone.

That was it. A three-sentence summary of eight hours of his life, offered with all the enthusiasm of someone reciting a grocery list. I pushed my barely-touched salmon around my plate, appetite vanishing.

"Maya?" My friend Sophia's voice echoed in my memory from our coffee date earlier that day. "You look exhausted. Is everything okay with you and Julian?"

I had forced a smile then, the same one I practiced daily in the mirror. "We're just going through a phase. Work has been demanding for both of us."

But it wasn't work. It was us—the growing distance, the conversations that never went beyond superficial pleasantries, the cold emptiness of our king-sized bed where we slept with our backs to each other.

"I was thinking," I ventured now, watching Julian's face for any reaction, "maybe we could take a weekend trip somewhere? The coast, perhaps? It's been so long since we've had time just for us."

Julian sighed, placing his phone down with reluctance. "Maya, you know I can't get away right now. The quarter ends in three weeks, and I'm behind on four major projects."

"You're always behind on projects," I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. "There's always something more important."

His expression hardened. "That 'something' pays for this apartment and the lifestyle you enjoy."

The accusation stung. I had my own career as an interior designer, and while it didn't match his corporate salary, I contributed significantly to our household. But this wasn't about money—it was about us slipping away from each other, inch by silent inch.

I pushed my plate away. "I'm not hungry anymore."

Julian didn't even look up. "You're wasting good food."

I stood abruptly, gathering our plates. In the kitchen, I scraped the remains of our dinner into the trash, feeling like I was discarding more than just uneaten salmon. The metaphor wasn't lost on me—our relationship was being thrown away in small, daily acts of indifference.

Later that evening, I sat on our balcony, wrapped in a blanket, watching the city lights flicker like distant stars. Julian was in his home office, door closed, the soft tapping of his keyboard the only evidence that I wasn't living alone.

My phone buzzed with a text from Sophia: "How are things tonight? Better?"

I typed back: "Same as always. I don't know how much longer I can do this."

Her response was immediate: "You deserve happiness, Maya. Maybe it's time for a hard conversation."

Maybe it was. The thought of confronting Julian terrified me, but the prospect of continuing in this emotional vacuum was worse.

When Julian finally emerged from his office around eleven, I was waiting in the living room, my heart pounding. He looked surprised to see me still up.

"I thought you'd be in bed by now," he said, loosening his tie.

"I needed to talk to you."

Something in my tone made him pause. He sat down across from me, maintaining the careful distance that had become our norm.

"Julian," I began, my voice steadier than I felt, "do you still love me?"

The question hung in the air between us, raw and exposed. Julian's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or discomfort.

"What kind of question is that? We're married."

"That's not an answer," I pressed, feeling a desperate courage. "Do you love me? Not as a habit, not as an obligation, but as a woman you desire, you cherish?"

He looked at me for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then he sighed, running a hand through his dark hair.

"Love changes, Maya. It's not always fireworks and passion. Sometimes it's just... being there." He paused, then added with clinical detachment, "Love is a habit, not passion. It's comfortable. Reliable."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Tears sprang to my eyes immediately, blurring my vision. I hadn't realized how desperately I had been hoping for a different answer—for him to cross the room, take me in his arms, and tell me that he loved me more than life itself.

Instead, he had reduced our relationship to a habit, as mundane as brushing teeth or making coffee in the morning.

"Is that all I am to you?" My voice cracked. "A habit? A routine?"

Julian looked genuinely confused by my reaction. "I didn't mean it as an insult, Maya. Stability is valuable. Not everything needs to be dramatic and intense."

"There's a difference between drama and feeling something, Julian." I wiped at my tears, suddenly angry. "When was the last time you looked at me—really looked at me? When was the last time you touched me because you wanted to, not because it was Friday night and that's when we have scheduled sex?"

He flinched at my bluntness. "You're being unfair."

"Am I? Because from where I'm sitting, it feels like I'm living with a stranger who happens to know my coffee order."

Julian stood up, his posture rigid. "I think we both need to calm down. We can discuss this when you're not so emotional."

That was Julian—always retreating when emotions ran high, always postponing the difficult conversations.

"No," I said firmly, rising to face him. "We need to discuss this now. I'm drowning here, Julian. I'm so lonely in this marriage that sometimes I can't breathe."

For a moment, I thought I saw a crack in his façade—a flash of pain or regret. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"What do you want from me, Maya?" he asked, his voice tired.

"I want you to fight for us! I want you to care that we're falling apart!"

He looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he simply said, "I'm going to bed. We both have early meetings tomorrow."

And with that, he walked away, leaving me standing alone in our living room, tears streaming down my face. The distance between us had never felt so vast or so insurmountable.

That night, as I lay awake beside Julian's sleeping form, I made a decision. I needed space—time away from this emotional wasteland to figure out if there was anything left worth saving.

In the morning, I would book a solo trip to the coast. Julian might not notice my absence, but I desperately needed to remember who I was before I became half of a failing marriage.