Paul and I have been together for almost seven years now. After I fell into his lap at the party and kicked everyone’s butts at cards, I was invited to join their bi-weekly games night. We hung out as friends for a few months before he asked me to his winter school dance. That night was the first time I felt even a flicker of a spark for him. I still didn’t say yes to being his girlfriend until after Christmas break.
I thought he might be the happy ending I deserved—and for a while it seemed like he was—but some days it feels like happiness is a chore, a far away beacon that I’ll never get back to.
It feels like it’s just me making any attempt to keep the dwindling spark alive these days.
Jamie thinks we’re just going through the “seven-year itch” and I’m putting too much pressure on myself. ButI don’t know anymore, he’s been distant for a long time. Part of me worries that he’s bored of this relationship and just doesn't know how to tell me.
Any time I suggest we try something—therapy, a vacation, getting a dog—he tells me tomorrow is a new day and it’ll be better.
But it never is.
Every day feels more mundane than the one before.
Every day I feel further away from him.
I don’t remember the last time we went on a date or did something romantic, and I sometimes wonder if he’s cheating on me.
He started a new job at Jarvis Law just over a year ago, trying to work his way up the ladder and preparingto take the bar exam. They do require a lot of work, but he often comes home smelling like scotch and will hop into the shower right away.
I try to ignore that thought—the last thing I want to do is be the girl who accuses her man of something only to find out it's false.
I’m not about to become the girl who cried wolf.
I pour myself a glass of wine right as the oven signals that dinner is ready. I would’ve waited longer, but it’s already 8:30 p.m. and I was hungry hours ago.
Serving myself a plate, I sit down at the dining room table I used to love.
Now it reminds me of all of the dinners I’ve eaten alone.
I love Paul, but sometimes I wonder if I’m still in love with him.
Or if I ever was.
Having countless late nights alone lets me reflect on our relationship and I start to realize everything has been on his terms. I moved to Chicago for him. I’ve given up hobbies and put off life goals because of him; I took a job I’m indifferent to because of him. Most of my friends here are people that he’s introduced me to who I have nothing in common with.
Meanwhile, all of my friends back home are progressing in their lives, buying houses and getting married or having kids. Everyone keeps asking us when it's our turn, but Paul always laughs and reminds me, “We’re not ready for that.”
I used to love that he wanted us to “enjoy being together” without the hassle of kids and formalities. Somewhere along the way that idea started to lose its sparkle for me. I’ve been hoping that he’d have a change of heart, that someday he’d want to marry me and wear our love for each other as a badge of honor. Lately it feels as if he’d rather keep everything locked in the back of a closet.
Like I’m some old forgotten sweater.
We’ve had many fights about our future but he never really gives me a straight answer.
Then again, Paul has never been great at communication.
I know I’m still young at twenty-four, but growing up I could clearly picture my happily ever after. I always expected to get married young and have a big house with five children running around the yard. We’d all load into the car to go to baseball games as a family.To cheer my husband on.
Those fantasies died a long time ago, and sometimes I think part of my happiness died along with them.
At 11:00 p.m., the front door opens and closes. His footsteps are loud against the silence of the house, and when he reaches the bedroom, a heavy shadow follows him.
“Are you awake?” His voice feels a million miles away, and it's sad to know I stopped expecting an apology for him coming home so late months ago.
“Ye-yeah,” I stammer, sitting up in the darkness.
He sighs as a slight shift in the mattress indicates he’s perched on the edge of the bed.
“How was work?” I whisper, trying to ignore the smell of scotch on his breath as he reaches out to me and places a chaste kiss on my cheek.
