Valentines Day: The Crushing Silence

The theater was one of those fancy places. The kind where you can order food right from your seat, where the chairs are plush, and the lights are dim and soothing. It should have been romantic. It should have felt like a date.

But all I felt was dread.

I didn't even get to pick the movie. He chose something loud and stupid. Some action flick I barely remember, but I remember that I hated it. I wanted to see the newest superhero movie, but he despised those. Probably because I liked them.

The server arrived, cheerful and polite, and he immediately hit the button to order. His voice was smooth, confident, charming. A complete transformation from the fury in the car.

"Let's see… I'll have the chicken tenders, a large popcorn, nachos, and a beer," he listed, not even glancing at me. "And water."

I leaned forward, trying to catch the server's eye. "Can I get—"

His hand snapped out, gripping my arm. Hard. So hard I felt the bruise bloom instantly beneath his fingers.

"You don't need anything," he muttered, his voice a low, venomous hiss. "We'll share."

Share. Right. My stomach twisted, an ache beneath the hunger, but I nodded. I didn't want to cause a scene. I didn't want him to get angry again.

But I should have known better.

The food arrived, a tray overflowing with golden, greasy bliss. The smell was torture. My stomach growled, a hot, clawing ache twisting inside me. I watched as he settled in, tearing into the chicken tenders, crunching the nachos, slurping his beer. He ate with a kind of aggressive satisfaction, like he was making a point. Like every bite was proof of his control.

The popcorn sat between us, a silent promise of "sharing." I reached out, a cautious, trembling hand, hoping for just a little. Just something to ease the ache.

But his hand snapped out again, this time smacking mine away. The sting shot up my wrist, but it was nothing compared to the cold, seething look in his eyes.

"No. Bad wife. Stupid, fat wife." His voice was a low, venomous whisper meant just for me. "I told you. We're sharing. But you don't need any."

The words hit harder than the slap to my hand. They lodged in my chest, sharp and cold, twisting like a knife. Bad wife. Fat. Stupid. Bad Wife

I didn't even see the movie. I didn't see anything. I just stared, frozen, the whisper echoing in my head.

Because it wasn't just his voice anymore. It was mine.

Bad wife.

Stupid

My chest was tight, my throat burning. I turned away, staring at the screen, but I didn't see the movie. I didn't see anything. The tears blurred everything, hot and silent, tracing cold lines down my cheeks.

I tried to hold them back. I bit the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood. Pressed my lips together until they trembled. Stared at the blurry, flashing screen, pretending I was engrossed in the movie. But the tears slipped free, hot and silent, streaking down my cheeks, burning against the icy air.

I tried to wipe them away, slow, careful. Like I was scratching my cheek, like I was just tired. Because if he saw me crying, if he noticed, even for a second, it would be worse.

He'd turn to me in that cold, sharp way. His voice would drop to that low, venomous whisper, sharp enough to slice through bone. "Are you really crying? Are you serious? I told you we'd share. Stop being dramatic. Grow up."

And I'd nod, wipe the tears faster, whisper, "I'm sorry." I'd say it again and again until he softened. Until his jaw unclenched. Until I could pretend everything was fine.

Because that's how it went. That was the pattern.

Hurt. Apologize. Hurt again.

The theater was freezing. The kind of cold that seeps in slow, crawling under your skin, settling in your bones. I tried to pull my jacket tighter, but it didn't help. I was shivering. Starving.

All around me, couples leaned close, shared whispered jokes, warm fingers brushing together in the dim light. I saw a girl laughing, her boyfriend stealing a kiss, his arm around her shoulders.

And I was a ghost. Fading. Forgotten. Starving in the dark.

So I stayed quiet. I stayed still. I wiped the tears away with trembling fingers, tried to swallow the ache, tried to make myself smaller. Smaller.

Invisible.

Bad wife.

Fat,

Because that was the truth now, wasn't it? His truth. My truth. His cruelty tangled into my thoughts, his lies becoming my reality.

Bad wife.

Stupid.

And I believed it.

When the movie ended, I didn't speak. I didn't ask if we could get food. I didn't say I was hungry. I didn't dare.

I just followed him out, a silent shadow trailing behind. My stomach was a hollow, twisting ache, but my chest hurt worse. The shame was a weight I couldn't shake, a cold, suffocating fog that wrapped around me.

I climbed into the car, pressing myself against the window, staring at the passing lights. I told myself I didn't need to eat. I told myself I was fine. I told myself I was overreacting.

But I wasn't. I was starving. I was shaking, my hands trembling in my lap, my body desperate for something— anything.

The silence was thick, smothering. He didn't speak, didn't look at me, just drove. I didn't dare say anything.

Until finally, after what felt like an eternity, he pulled into a Wendy's. Relief flooded through me, a tiny flicker of hope. Food. I could eat. I wouldn't have to go to bed hungry.

He pulled up to the drive-thru, his voice smooth and confident again. "Six junior bacon cheeseburgers," he ordered. "And a large fry."

Six. My heart fluttered. That had to mean three for each of us, right? Finally, something for me.

But then the food came. Greasy paper bags rustling, the smell of warm, savory burgers filling the car. He grabbed four, unwrapped one, and bit into it, eating fast, tearing into it like a starving man.

My stomach twisted, growling, the hunger like claws scraping at my insides. I watched as he finished one. Then another. He didn't even look at me.

By the time he finally glanced over, two burgers were left. He handed them to me without a word, his jaw working on his third.

I was so hungry my hands were shaking. I didn't even taste the first one. I just devoured it, barely chewing, desperate for anything. The second was gone just as fast. My stomach was still aching, but at least it wasn't empty.

I looked at him, at the fourth burger still in his hand. I didn't dare ask for it. I just leaned back, silent, trying to ignore the shame twisting in my chest.

It wasn't just hunger. It was defeat. Humiliation. And the worst part? I told myself it was my fault. I was late. I ruined his plans. I didn't deserve to eat.

I curled up against the cold window, trying to disappear. Because if I was small enough, quiet enough, maybe I wouldn't be the problem.