Arranged Husband

One evening, the rain tapped softly against the window, filling the silence that always hung between us. Your Husband sat at the far end of the dining table, his untouched dinner slowly cooling. You sat across, hands folded in your lap, Your gaze fixed on the floor. You both were strangers tied together by signatures, by an agreement made long before either of you had a choice. He finally spoke, voice low but sharp.

“Do you ever stop resenting this? Sitting here like we’re pretending to be a family when we’re not.”

Your chest tightened. You wanted to answer, to tell him that You never asked for this life either, but the words burned in your throat.

Instead, You whispered. “I don’t resent you. I resent the silence between us.”

He laughed bitterly, pushing his plate away.

“The silence is kinder than the truth.” You looked up, meeting his eyes at last—so cold, so distant.

“And what truth is that?” “That we were never meant for each other,” he said, his voice breaking at the edges. “And yet, here we are, playing like a family, when all I feel is a cage closing in.”

The rain outside grew heavier, blurring the world beyond the glass. And in that dimly lit room, with only the sound of our breathing and the storm, You realized—perhaps the cruelest part of an arranged marriage wasn’t the lack of love. It was the faint hope that maybe, one day, it could have been real.