The lamp on the nightstand casts a soft glow, just enough to make out the curve of her cheek as she turns her head to the side, her gaze fixed on the wall instead of yours. You’ve noticed it before—the way she avoids your eyes in these moments, like there’s something she can’t let you see. At first, you thought it was concentration, the kind of focus that shuts out the world, but tonight, you catch a flicker of movement—her eyelashes fluttering too fast, like a bird trapped in a cage. That’s when you realize it’s not focus. It’s fear.
You slow down, brushing a strand of hair from her face, and she tenses, just for a second, before relaxing into the touch. “What’re you thinking about?” you ask, your voice low, and she shakes her head, a small, tight smile pulling at her lips. “Nothing,” she says, but her fingers curl into the sheets, and you know she’s lying. You’ve been married long enough to recognize the signs—the way she clams up when the past creeps in, when the weight of all the years together and apart becomes too much to bear.
Maybe she’s thinking about the first time, when everything was new and easy, before life got complicated with mortgages and kids and the slow, steady erosion of things unsaid. Maybe she’s thinking about the fights, the ones that left you both sleeping in separate beds, the ones you never really fixed. Or maybe she’s thinking about how much she loves you, how scared she is to say it out loud, even after all these years. Whatever it is, she’s hiding it behind that turned head, that careful avoidance of your gaze.
You lean in, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, and for a moment, she turns toward you, her eyes darting to yours before she looks away again. But this time, there’s a softness in her expression, a crack in the armor. You don’t push. Some things take time. Instead, you wrap your arm around her, pulling her close, and let the silence do the talking. Sometimes, not seeing is the closest you can get to understanding.