What did he mean?
Two years of marriage. Two years of giving him my body, my heart, my everything, only to hear that?
As soon as the realization sank in, I ran into the bathroom and broke down. My sobs echoed off the tiles, my knees weak beneath me.
I wasn't enough for him.
Not beautiful enough.
Not desirable enough.
Not enough, period.
He didn't love me. He couldn't. I was just someone he married; someone he slept with because it was convenient.
The more I thought, the more it hurt. Every small disappointment I had buried came rushing back. Every cold glance, every unspoken rejection. It all rose like a tide I could no longer hold back.
I turned the tap on full, trying to drown out the sound of my pain. Wishing the water could wash it all away.
When I finally stopped crying, I felt hollow; like something inside me had quietly cracked open.
I was done.
In two years of marriage, Zeyansh had never smiled at me for long, never teased me, never complimented me, never even looked at me for more than a moment. I had convinced myself that's just how he was, but denial only lasts so long.
And sexually? I had never once reached climax with him. He never noticed. Never asked.
You can't keep a marriage alive when only one person's trying.
It's like pedaling a bicycle with one leg; it doesn't move forward, it just wobbles until it crashes.
Maybe this was our crash.
I laughed bitterly through the tears. "I don't turn him on enough?"
If anyone wasn't turned on, it was me.
Half the time, I needed lube just to make it bearable.
I'd been fooling myself, thinking he didn't mind the way I looked.
Maybe he had been watching porn all along, fantasizing about someone else before touching me.
I could scream, cry, and slap him for it. Or I could look him in the eye and tell him what he's lost, without shedding another tear.
I chose the second.
When I walked back into our room, he was lying on the bed, scrolling through his phone as if nothing had happened.
"Zeyansh," I said quietly.
He looked up, just once.
"All these months, I took pride in thinking my husband wasn't the kind of man who judged a woman by her looks. Turns out, I was wrong. You'll never accept me, and that's fine. I just hope you'll at least respect me and this marriage."
I swallowed hard. "I'll still be your wife. I'll still care for you. And I'll still love you, even if you never look at me the same way."
He said nothing. His silence was louder than any insult.
I turned my back to him and laid down.
"Also," I added softly, "I'll attend your office party tomorrow. Don't worry about me skipping it."
The next morning was gray and heavy. I woke early, before him, just to avoid his presence. I made breakfast and packed his lunch, but no note this time.
Writing that note would mean I was still trying. Cooking just meant I was functioning.
I took a half day off to shop for the party. Around noon, Zeyansh texted me the details: venue, time. Said he'd meet me there directly.
By evening, I'd found a red saree with a matching blouse. Abinaya helped me with my makeup and styled my hair in soft waves. I applied sindoor and clasped my mangalsutra outside my blouse. Whatever happened between us, those symbols still meant something to me.
Before leaving, I looked at myself in the mirror one last time and whispered,
"Don't expect anything. No compliments, no warmth. Just go, smile, and survive the night."
When I arrived at the hotel, I handed my car keys to the valet and took a deep breath.
Tonight, I would face him, not as his wife desperate for love, but as a woman who refused to be invisible.
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YOU ARE READING
His Burden, His Blessing
Romantik"You don't turn me on enough for us to roleplay." My husband of 2 years said to me. It took me some time to process what he said. "What?! What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Is this some kind of a joke?" I asked him incredulously. "Do I look lik...
