He’d get random ones in the middle of his workday asking, “We’re okay, right?” even though they’d had a perfectly normal breakfast together that morning. Or, “You still love me?” after a night where they’d laughed and watched movies like always.
He didn’t understand where these questions were coming from.
Then came the secrets, and that’s when Daniel’s chest started tightening with dread.
Emma started keeping her phone face down on every surface.
She’d jump when he walked into a room, like he’d caught her doing something wrong. She seemed annoyed with him all the time, snapping at him for things that had never bothered her before, but she couldn’t explain why she was upset.
She’d disappear into their bedroom for an hour or more, and when she finally came out, her eyes would be red and swollen.
“Just tired,” she’d say, avoiding his gaze. But she didn’t look tired.
She looked destroyed.
Eventually, their social life vanished. Emma started canceling plans with their friends, claiming headaches or stomach problems. But then Daniel would wake up at 2 a.m. to find her pacing the living room in the dark, wide awake, her breathing shallow and quick.
The fights started becoming routine, erupting over nothing and ending with both of them sleeping as far apart as possible in their bed.
Daniel’s brain, with absolutely zero emotional vocabulary to work with, did what scared brains do when they don’t understand what’s happening.
It filled in the blanks with the worst possible scenarios.
She’s cheating on me. She regrets marrying me. She’s texting someone else when she locks herself in the bedroom. Someone at work, maybe. Or an old boyfriend she reconnected with online.
The thoughts consumed him. They played on a loop in his head during his commute, during meetings, and even during dinner when she sat across from him, pushing food around her plate.
He wanted to ask her directly, to demand the truth and get it over with. But he’d never seen a healthy confrontation in his entire life. His parents didn’t talk through problems. They either exploded in rare, terrifying arguments or, more often, they just went silent and pretended nothing was wrong.
So, Daniel went quiet instead.
He pulled back from Emma, creating distance to protect himself from whatever was coming. He stayed longer at work, taking on extra projects he didn’t need. He slept on the very edge of their bed, careful not to touch her. He stopped asking about her day. He stopped trying to make her laugh.
In his lowest, darkest moments, usually around 3 a.m. when he couldn’t sleep, Daniel caught himself thinking something that made him feel sick with guilt. Maybe we should divorce before it gets even uglier. Perhaps it would be cleaner to end it now before we start really hating each other.
He hated himself for thinking it.
But he didn’t know what else to do.
One evening in late September, Daniel came home from work early. His boss had sent everyone home after a power outage shut down their systems.
The apartment was completely silent when he walked in, which was unusual. Emma’s car had been in the parking lot, so she was definitely home.
“Em?” he called out, setting his keys on the counter.
No answer.
He walked into the kitchen and noticed her things scattered across the table.
He saw her favorite mug, still half-full of cold coffee, her keys, her phone, face down as always. And there, right in the center of the table, was a small spiral-bound notebook left open, as if she’d just set it down to run to the bathroom for a minute.
Daniel wasn’t the snooping type. He’d never gone through Emma’s phone or read her emails, even when the suspicious thoughts were eating him alive. But when he reached out to move the notebook so he could set down his bag, his eyes caught on a phrase written at the top of the page in Emma’s handwriting.
“Anxiety Thoughts – Do NOT say out loud.”
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