Wilt doesn’t happen all at once.
It begins at the edges.
A missed glance.
An unanswered “Hey, babe.”
A touch that never lands.
A meal that goes untouched, though she made it exactly the way he likes.
It begins in the kitchen. Always the kitchen.
That was their holy place once. Now it’s a museum of what they used to be. She stands barefoot in front of the stove, her reflection flickering in the stainless steel, and feels like an exhibit. A once-vibrant woman frozen mid-pose, spatula in one hand, towel in the other, waiting for laughter that no longer comes.
She makes dinner anyway.
He walks in ten minutes late, eyes on his phone, and says, “Smells good,” like he’s talking to the air.
She nods.
Sits across from him.
Waits.
He eats quickly, scrolling between bites, a lazy rhythm of attention and absence.
He doesn’t ask about her day.
Doesn’t look up to see the new braid she added to her hair.
Doesn’t notice that she isn’t eating.
She watches him chew like he’s a stranger she used to love.
She wonders when chewing became louder than conversation.
Later that night, she hears him laugh in the other room.
A video, probably. Something stupid. A clip of someone falling or dancing badly or a podcast joke he’ll never share with her.
She walks past him slowly. He doesn’t look up.
She wants to scream.
Not to hurt him.
Just to test the acoustics of her own disappearance.
She used to be his favorite echo. Now she’s background noise. A ceiling fan. A faucet drip. Something you swear you’ll fix, but never do.
The moment breaks her in the smallest way:
She drops her hairbrush.
That’s it.
Just a clatter of plastic on tile.
But the sound jolts her. Makes her breath catch. Her hands tremble.
Because he doesn’t react.
Doesn’t come check.
Doesn’t ask if she’s okay.
The sound that would have once drawn him like lightning now lands in a house asleep at the switch.
She stares into the mirror.
Her face looks the same.
But her eyes have lost their urgency.
Her lips, their anticipation.
This is what happens when you are loved only in the beginning.
She walks back to bed and lies down, facing the wall. The sheets smell like detergent, not desire. Her own skin feels foreign.
She used to keep perfume on the nightstand. A ritual. A promise. A reminder.
Now she sprays nothing. Because no one leans in anymore.
The next morning, she tries.
Again.
She makes his coffee the way he used to make hers. Two sugars, splash of oat milk, extra hot.
He takes it without a word, kisses her forehead absentmindedly, and walks away mid-sentence to answer a call.
She stands in the kitchen holding the ghost of a moment.
She whispers to herself: “This is what wilt sounds like.”
She calls her sister that afternoon.
Keeps her voice light.
Lies when asked, “Everything good with you two?”
She says, “Yeah, just in a weird phase, you know how it is.”
Her sister laughs.
She fakes one too.
But her throat feels like a field that’s forgotten rain.
She goes to her journal again that night.
Not to write poetry. Not to process. Just to survive.
She writes:
“Today, I realized that being ignored hurts more than being yelled at.”
“Today, I stood next to a man who once worshipped me, and felt like furniture.”
“Today, I didn’t feel anything when he touched me. I flinched because my skin is no longer sure of his hands.”
Wilt is not decay.
Not yet.
Wilt is the last moment before the flower bends so far it forgets how to rise.
She stops talking as much.
Not as a tactic.
Not as punishment.
But because the effort feels wasted.
He doesn’t notice.
They go three days without a real conversation.
The house is clean. The chores are done. The laughter is missing. The intimacy is a fossil.
One night, she tries again. She leans in, places her hand on his chest, and says, “Do you think we’re okay?”
He replies, “Yeah, why wouldn’t we be?”
And that’s when she knows:
He has no idea she’s dying right next to him.
She begins to write exit plans in her head.
Not because she’s leaving.
But because her soul is rehearsing.
Where would she go?
What would she take?
How would she explain a breakup with a man who never hit her, never cheated, never yelled?
What do you call the kind of heartbreak that comes from being unloved by someone who still says “I love you”?
She wonders if there’s a name for that.
She decides there isn’t.
So she writes her own:
“Emotional Malnutrition.”
“Love Without Vitamin C.”
“Death by Absence.”
One night, she sits next to him on the couch, pretending to watch the movie.
She places her head gently on his shoulder.
He shifts slightly but doesn’t lean in.
She stays for a few minutes, then slowly pulls away.
He doesn’t notice.
She goes to bed without brushing her teeth.
She wants to feel undone.
The wilt reaches her voice.
She finds herself quieter. Less expressive. Less interested in telling stories.
When she does speak, he says things like, “You good?” or “You’ve been quiet lately.”
She nods.
She’s quiet because she’s turning into soil.
And no one waters soil for its own sake.
Only for what it can grow.
She dreams of rain that night.
Not torrential.
Just steady. Warm. Sincere.
She dreams of hands tracing her back like scripture.
Of eyes that ask, “What are you thinking?” and wait for the answer.
She wakes up and he’s snoring.
Back turned.
Fists curled.
A world away.
She doesn’t cry.
She just watches the ceiling.
Because wilt doesn’t come with tears.
Wilt is dry.
Wilt is when the body still stands but the spirit begins to curl inward.
That day, she packs a small overnight bag.
No destination.
Just preparation.
She places it in the closet behind the winter coats.
It’s not a decision.
It’s a whisper to herself: You are allowed to bloom somewhere else.
She tells no one. Not yet.
But the act feels like hydration.
A single drop.
Enough to feel real again.
That night, as he brushes past her in the hallway, he pauses.
Says, “You okay?”
She looks at him.
Really looks.
Not to hurt. Not to test.
But to see.
He’s tired. Detached. Empty in the eyes.
Just like her.
She almost answers.
But instead, she just says, “Yeah. Just tired.”
And walks away before he can ask what kind of tired.
Because she knows he wouldn’t wait for the answer anyway.