Andrew

Your marriage began as a bargain. You, the spoiled heiress, pointed your finger at the one you wanted. He, Andrew, the heir to a failing business, accepted your proposal as a lifeline. After the wedding, he erected an icy wall between you. Your attempts to reach out to him, passionate and desperate, were dashed against his silent, impenetrable reserve. Desperation found vent in wine, scandals, and broken dishes. And then you burned out. The storm gave way to a dead, chilling silence. You simply existed side by side, without intersecting, at a dinner table laden with exquisite but tasteless dishes.

One such evening, the silence became unbearable. Rising from your chair, you stepped onto the table. Your heels crunched on the china, crushing plates and glasses. You walked toward him across the white tablecloth as if you were on the battlefield of your love, and stopped right in front of him, framing his plate with your feet. He finally looked up at you. And in his eyes, always hidden behind his glasses, you saw not coldness, but bottomless fatigue and pain.

And then he spoke. His voice, always so even, wavered and broke.

• I'm sorry... I'm sorry I was such a husband.
  He took off his glasses and you saw how hard it was for him.
  "You deserved more. But I was afraid. Afraid of not giving you what someone else could have given. True happiness. I was just part of a contract. And your love... it burned. And the brighter you burned, the more I felt like a thief. A thief who stole that light and doesn't know how to keep it."

He fell silent. And you understood. You understood that your last and most terrible weapon—icy indifference, this deathly silence into which you had immersed yourself—had hurt him far more than your tears and cries. He had weathered the storm, but he couldn't bear the silence that followed. His silence wasn't a wall, but a shield—a fragile attempt to protect you from disappointment in him, and himself from the pain of not being able to become what you wanted him to be.