There was a day we went into the city together — just me and my wife — for a simple shopping trip. Nothing fancy, just a relaxed afternoon out.
While we were there, I stumbled across these foam panels: colorful, oddly shaped, kind of playful. They caught my eye because I’d been thinking about soundproofing the media room — not anything serious, just trying to make the space feel a little more intentional. I turned to her, genuinely wanting to know what she thought. Not because I needed her approval, but because I care about how she sees things — especially when it comes to our home.
So I asked, “Hey, what do you think? Would this look cool in the media room?”
She didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, she said, “I don’t care what you do with that stupid room.”
It came out flat. Cold.
I remember feeling like I’d been punched in the gut. Not because of the words alone, but because they felt so disconnected from the way we usually are with each other — from the warmth we share. I tried not to let it show too much, but inside, I was hurt. When we got home, I could feel the distance growing between us. My silence wasn’t meant to punish — it was just the only thing I had left.
Later, when we were alone, I finally asked, “Why did you snap at me like that? In public? If you’re upset with me, talk to me — just me. We don’t have to do this in front of others.”
That’s when everything changed.
She didn’t respond. Not really. She looked away, jaw tight — and then walked out of the room. It was the first day of twelve where she wouldn’t speak to me at all.
At first, I thought maybe she just needed time. But as days passed — one, two, five — it started to feel unbearable. I would try to reach out, ask if she was okay, see if we could talk. Every time, she’d leave the room or stare blankly ahead, like I wasn’t even there. No explanation. No acknowledgment. Just silence.
By the eighth day, I couldn’t sleep in the same bed knowing she was just lying there, saying nothing. So I moved to the guest room. I hated it, but it felt less painful than being shut out every time I reached for her.
On the eleventh day, she followed me into the guest room. Crawled into bed with me and put her head on my shoulder.
But it didn’t feel genuine.
It felt like she wanted the quiet to end — not necessarily the reasons behind it. I wanted to understand why she’d pulled away so completely. Why the coldness? Why now? Why like that?
I raised my voice sometimes — not in anger, but in desperation. Frustration bubbling over because I didn’t know how else to get through. How do you explain missing someone who’s still in the house, but feels miles away?
And then, after twelve days, she spoke again — really spoke. Not just to fill the silence, but maybe because she wanted to understand, too.
BPD Chronicles 