After we got married, we spent nearly five or six months living overseas — a whirlwind of building a life together, learning each other’s rhythms, trying to make sense of love and partnership in a new way.
There was a time when D wanted to return to her home country to pursue dance again — something she’d dreamed of since before we married. She spoke about it often, with this dreamy kind of longing in her voice. I tried everything to help her find a middle ground — even researching programs in Europe so she could chase that dream closer to home. She got excited. We explored options together. We talked late into the night about which cities had the best studios, what kind of training she’d need, how long the program would take.
But just as quickly as her interest came, it disappeared.
For a few months after that, things were good — really good. And I started to feel like we needed a little break from our routine. A reset. So I suggested a short vacation to Europe. Since her home country was too far away, maybe this could be something new for both of us.
I had unlimited PTO at the time, so we started brainstorming destinations. I told her, “Let’s go somewhere neither of us has ever been.” She loved the idea. We researched cities with good weather, short flights, and affordable travel. We narrowed it down to five places — Vienna, Lisbon, Barcelona, Milan, and Budapest — and made it fun: we wrote each city name on a slip of paper, tossed them into a hat, and decided we’d pick until one came up twice.
First draw: Budapest.
Second: Milan.
Third: Milan again.
That was it. We were going to Italy.
More than just Milan — we saw it as an opportunity to explore. From Milan to Venice by train, then Florence, and finally Bologna, where we’d fly back from. It felt like the perfect adventure. I requested time off from work, got approval within the week. I booked the flights. We looked at Airbnbs, mapped out days in each city. March rolled in, and everything was falling into place.
We were excited. She was planning outfits, making lists of restaurants we should try. I was mapping out train routes, checking weather forecasts, looking up local festivals. It felt like we were a real couple again — building something together, dreaming together.
Then came the argument.
It started with children — or rather, the idea of them. She told me she didn’t want any. Not now. Maybe not ever.
It felt like a punch to the gut.
Just months ago, she had said she wanted five kids. She used to talk about it with such warmth — how she imagined teaching them languages, raising them bilingually, how she pictured our future home filled with laughter and chaos. Now, she was saying she wasn’t ready — that pregnancy would change her body, affect her work-life balance — even though she only taught 6–10 hours a week.
I was stunned. Confused. Heartbroken.
We argued. Hard. And then… silence.
Again.
This wasn’t the first time she had shut down communication, but it was the second time it stretched for days — then weeks.
At this point, we were just two weeks away from our trip. I finally said something:
“If we can’t even talk to each other, how are we supposed to travel together? How do you take a vacation with someone who won’t look at you?”
I hoped that would break through. That she’d stop the silent treatment and come back to me — even just a little.
But it didn’t phase her. She stayed closed off. Unmoved.
So I made the hardest call I could have made.
I canceled the trip.
How could I go to Italy with someone who no longer seemed to share the same dreams I did? Who had changed so completely, so suddenly?
She acted like it didn’t bother her. Like it didn’t hurt. She didn’t cry. Didn’t lash out. Just… nodded.
But I know people. I know her.
Deep down, I’m sure it stung.
And me? I just felt empty.
Like I was watching a life I thought I had slowly disappear — piece by piece, decision by decision.
BPD Chronicles 