The Space Between Us

The bed was big, but the space between Amara and her husband, Sammy, felt like an ocean. Every morning, she woke up to the same routine, the gentle glow of his phone, the soft taps of his thumbs. She knew he was sending good morning wishes just not to her. She lay right beside him, the mother of his child, and felt as invisible as the air.

I love him so much, Amara thought, closing her eyes against the sting of tears. He is my everything after God. Why do I fee like nothing to him?

Lately, their marriage felt like a heavy stone she was constantly trying to push up a hill. Every moment of affection, every little sign of connection, had to be asked for, She had to ask for a cuddle. She had to tell him, again and again, how to treat her. It was exhausting.

When she tried to explain the ache in her heart, he would instantly become a wall. He would grow angry or defensive, making her feel like she was crazy for having emotions. In his mind, he was a good husband because he worked hard. He paid the bills, the rent, and bought food. That, he thought, was enough love to give.

Amara knew he was a genuinely good man, kind, and family-oriented in so many ways. But that goodness just made the confusion worse. If he was such a good man, why did he make her feel so small?

She saw the messages. The kindness, the attention, the easy, flowing compliments he sent to others. He would wake up and wish them good morning before she even opened her eyes and wishe them good night before going to bed but not to his woman. He hardly commented on her posts online, yet he was always there, quick with a heart or a fire emoji for some other woman, telling them how beautiful they looked. She guessed he bought them gifts, maybe even took them out, and the thought was a knife twist in her chest.

The deepest, most crippling wound came from within herself. She couldn't shake the memory of their child's birth. That day, exhausted but full of the fierce love of a new mother, he had looked at her and commented on how big her stomach was.

Maybe it’s the weight, the thought whispered, cold and constant. Maybe I’m just not enough anymore.

She looked at her body, the soft curves she’d gained carrying his baby, and worried constantly. Maybe she wasn't his type of woman. Maybe she looked older than him. She started to feel like he was ashamed of the way she looked.

In the evenings, when his workday was finally done, she hoped for time. But he came to bed, lay down, and the phone went up. He scrolled and chatted until the screen slipped from his hand and he fell asleep. She was right there, yet still alone.

She felt like everyone and everything else was his priority—his phone, his work, the other girls, even strangers online—but she was always last.

This hurt so bad, yet every morning, Amara woke up, put on a smile, and pretended everything was cool and happy. She didn't want an argument; she just wanted to be seen. She wished, with a devastating, quiet certainty, that he could either love her better, with the care and tenderness he showed the world, or just have the courage to tell her, he doesn’t love her at all. Because living like this, smiling through the pain, was becoming an impossible burden.