Sixteen years into a marriage, love rarely disappears in a dramatic explosion. It fades quietly, almost politely, replaced by routine and responsibilities.
The mornings become rushed. Conversations turn practical. Instead of whispered affection, you discuss grocery lists, school schedules, and whether the electricity bill has been paid.
That was the stage of life my husband and I had reached.
Our names were Marcus and Elena. For the most part, our life was exactly what we had built together: busy, imperfect, but stable. We had two children, a modest house filled with noise and clutter, and the kind of partnership that comes from years of navigating life side by side.
But romance had slowly slipped into the background.
Not because we didn’t care about each other anymore. It was simply buried beneath responsibilities, work deadlines, parent-teacher meetings, late-night laundry, and the kind of exhaustion that makes falling asleep on the couch feel like a luxury.
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