I’m writing this at 2 a.m., sitting on the floor of our half-empty apartment, staring at the magnet she bought in Venice. The one I joked was “overpriced junk.” Turns out, it’s the only thing holding my life together right now. Sophie and I met at a friend’s BBQ. She was the girl with paint in her hair and a laugh that made strangers smile. I was the sarcastic introvert who hated small talk. For some reason, she loved that about me. We married young—too young, my friends said—but we swore we’d outgrow the doubts together. The first five years were magic. She’d leave love notes in my toolbox (I’m a mechanic), and I’d surprise her with midnight drives to nowhere. But somewhere between my late-night poker games and her grad school stress, we stopped trying. Really trying. She’d ask, “Can we talk about us?” and I’d joke, “What’s left to say?” I skipped her art shows to watch football. Forgot our anniversary three years straight. When her dad died, I handed her a casserole and said, “You’ll get over it.” Last winter, she started yoga. “It’s healing,” she said. I rolled my eyes. “Weird cult, but you do you.” She stopped wearing her wedding ring to class. I didn’t notice. Then, two months ago, I came home to silence. Her plants were gone. The bookshelves, half-bare. And on the fridge, a note stuck under that stupid Venice magnet: “I’ve been screaming for years, and you’ve been wearing headphones. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay loud enough for you to hear. —S” I tore the house apart, finding fragments of her I’d ignored: A journal in her nightstand: “Told him I’m scared of becoming strangers. He changed the subject to gas prices.” A dried rose in her desk—from our first date—with “Why did we stop?” scribbled on the stem. A voicemail she’d sent me last fall, unplayed until now: “I miscarried today. Can you… just come home?” (I’d been at a buddy’s garage, drinking beer and complaining about “drama.”) I called her 37 times. She answered once: “I’m not your backup plan anymore.” We met for coffee last week. She looked… lighter. Said she’s living in a studio, teaching art to kids. “I finally breathe,” she told me. I wanted to hate her new life, but I’d built this. I’m sharing this because we assume love is bulletproof if we ignore the cracks. It’s not. If your partner’s voice feels like background noise, turn down the static. Fight for them before they learn to live without you. TL;DR: Dismissed my wife’s cries for connection until she left. Now I’m the ghost in our empty home. — A man who forgot love is a verb (Share if you’ve ever taken “forever” for granted. And if you’re scrolling past this to avoid a hard conversation… put the phone down. Go find them.)