She saw that—and it bothered her more than betrayal would have.

One night she asked, “Are you still attracted to me?”

“Yes,” I said.

But I added, “That’s not the same as wanting to be turned away all the time.”

It was the first time I spoke plainly.

And once you stop asking, you also stop softening your truth.

She tried harder after that—touches, kisses, planned moments.

But I could see the reason behind them.

And fear is not the same as intimacy.

Then one night, she finally admitted it.

“I didn’t think you’d actually stop.”

That explained everything.

She believed my effort was permanent. That no matter how she treated it, it would always be there—constant, available, unbreakable.

She was wrong.

“That was your mistake,” I said.

She cried—not because I raised my voice, but because I didn’t.

Regret is louder in silence than cruelty ever is.

Later, she apologized—truly this time. She spoke about fear, pressure, shame, how intimacy started feeling like expectation instead of connection. She admitted she pushed me away because it was easier than confronting her own discomfort.

It was honest.

But it came too late.

“I want us back,” she said.

“There is no back,” I told her.

And that broke something in her.

The truth was, I still loved her.

But love doesn’t survive contempt easily.

We tried counseling. She improved. She softened. But something inside me had already crossed a line that couldn’t be undone. Every affectionate gesture felt uncertain. Every moment asked to be trusted again—and I couldn’t unlearn what I had experienced.