The Life We Never Lived

He used to have this fire inside him—a spark she had fallen for, something quiet yet undeniable. There wasn’t any need for grand gestures or declarations. His energy spoke for itself in small, unspoken ways. It was in how he’d laugh at nothing in particular, how he’d pull her into him with a warmth that made her feel like she was home. That was the man she fell in love with. The man who once lived fully, confidently, without needing to prove anything to anyone.

But time moves differently for people, she thought. While she still woke up with the same passion for life, he seemed to slow down. At first, she told herself it was natural—work, life, responsibilities, they had a way of creeping in. But soon, it wasn’t just the slowing down. It was the absence. The absence of that light, the absence of the smiles he used to give so freely, and the absence of him.

He had always been the man who leaned into life, into her. But now, he sat across from her at the dinner table, absent-minded, swirling a glass of red wine, his eyes distant. He’d blame it on being tired—work stress, long hours, the usual things adults complained about. He’d joke about needing to unplug, how it was easier to get lost in a show like The Wire than to deal with the world outside. She’d laugh with him, but the laughter never reached her eyes.

He’d tell her he was the same man she’d met, and maybe he believed it. Maybe that’s what hurt the most. Because he couldn’t see what she saw—the distance growing between them like a canyon that neither one of them knew how to cross. He would say he was still here, still the man she fell in love with, just a little quieter now. A little more tired, sure, but still him. And yet, the man she knew wouldn’t spend whole weekends in bed, hiding under the covers like a shield from the world.

She’d find him there sometimes, lost in thought, his mind a million miles away. He wasn’t one to talk about it—not the darkness that had settled in, the thoughts that circled in his head like vultures. He thought he could push it away, keep it inside and let it pass. But it didn’t pass. It lingered, took root, and slowly started to consume him. He tried to keep it hidden from her, but she wasn’t blind. She saw the change in him, the way he smiled less, the way he pulled away when all she wanted was to bring him closer.

He had fewer smiles now, fewer reasons to laugh. The smiles he did offer were spent on people he hadn’t seen in years, people who didn’t really know him anymore. With them, it was easier to pretend. Easier to fake being the man they remembered, the man who had fire in his veins. But with her, it was different. She knew him too well, could see through the façade. And that scared him. So he retreated, further and further, until it felt like they were living in two separate worlds, even though they shared the same space.

There was a time when she tried to reach him—tried to pull him back from wherever his mind had wandered. She’d ask him how he was feeling, if there was something wrong, something she could do. But each time, he’d shrug it off, offer a half-hearted excuse about being tired, about needing some time to himself. And each time, her heart sank a little more.

One night, she found herself alone in bed, tears staining the pillow as she cried silently. She didn’t want to wake him, didn’t want him to see her like this. But he did wake, and for a moment, he watched her, the guilt heavy in his chest. He knew this was his doing. The fairytale they had started writing together—the one where they would grow old, hand in hand, where every day was a new chapter—was crumbling. The story they’d imagined was now full of crossed-out lines, pages torn out, the ending uncertain.

She cried for what they were losing, for the love that was slipping through their fingers. And all he could do was sit there, helpless, watching her fall apart while knowing that he was too far gone to fix it. He wanted to be the man she needed, the man she believed in. But he was stuck, trapped in his own mind, unable to move forward, unable to explain why he couldn’t be who he once was.

The truth was, he wasn’t the same man she met, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. He had changed, lost pieces of himself along the way, pieces he wasn’t sure he could ever get back. He wanted to run, to escape the weight of his own thoughts, to disappear onto a freight train and leave it all behind. He was lost in the idea of change, convinced that maybe if he ran far enough, he’d find the part of him that had gone missing.

He saw it in her too—the subtle shift in the way she looked at him. The way the passion in her eyes had dimmed, just a little, like she was trying to hold onto something that was slipping away. She wasn’t the same either. How could she be? She had spent so long trying to pull him back, to bring him out of his darkness, and now she was tired. Tired of waiting, tired of hoping, tired of pretending that things hadn’t changed.

He knew she wasn’t to blame. This was on him. He had gone missing, not her. He was the one who spent his days chasing after memories of what they used to be, trying to relive moments that had already faded. He was the one who had let the space between them grow into a chasm, wide enough to swallow them whole.

She stayed, even as the seams of their love began to unravel. She stayed, waiting for the man she loved to return, hoping that one day, he would wake up from this slump and be the person she remembered. But deep down, they both knew the truth. The man she met was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

Years later, they both moved on, each finding new lives, new loves. He got married, and so did she. They were happy—content, as much as adulthood allowed. They talked about children, about settling down, about the future. But every now and then, when they found themselves in the same room, at some reunion or work event, the old feelings would stir. It was faint, like a long-forgotten song, but it was there.

They would exchange polite smiles, ask each other how they were doing, and for a brief moment, they would remember. They would remember the life they could have had, the mornings that could have been theirs, the love that slipped away. It was unspoken, but they both knew. It could have been them. It should have been them.

But they were happy now, or at least, that’s what they told themselves. Still, every now and then, he would catch a glimpse of her across the room, and for a fleeting moment, he would see the life they never lived reflected in her eyes. And just like that, the fire in him would flicker, if only for a moment.