We don't talk anymore

“We don’t talk anymore.”

My husband looked at me with eyes that seemed too tired to argue.

“We don’t,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.

Silence filled the space between us again — familiar, heavy, and cold.

I stirred my tea, though it had gone cold too.

That was the morning I told him I wanted a divorce.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t beg. He just nodded, once.

And then he said, “Let me bring you breakfast for two weeks. After that, we’ll sign the papers.”

The next morning, I woke to the sound of plates clinking in the kitchen.

It startled me at first, it had been months since he’d risen before me.

I stayed in bed a while, staring at the ceiling, pretending not to care.

But the smell of toast and scrambled eggs drifted in like a memory.

When I finally stepped into the dining room, he was already seated.

Two plates. Two cups. One silence.

“Good morning,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

I murmured something that sounded like a reply in front of setting everything neatly, too neatly, as though he’d measured every spoon and slice.

We ate without talking. The only sound was the scrape of forks against plates.

The eggs were slightly burnt, and the tea was too sweet.

He knew I didn’t like sweet tea. He always had.

Still, I drank it.

When we finished, he quietly took my plate, rinsed it, and left for work.

No argument. No conversation.

Only that strange heaviness : like something was being built, brick by brick, in the silence between us.

That night, I thought about the breakfast more than I should have.

The next morning, I came out earlier than usual.

He was already there, setting the table again.

“Toast?” he asked. His tone was careful, like he was afraid of breaking something invisible between us.

I nodded.

He placed two slices on my plate. This time, the eggs weren’t burnt.

The tea was darker, unsweetened. He remembered.

We ate quietly, as always. But it wasn’t the same kind of quiet as yesterday.

Yesterday’s silence was sharp.

Today’s felt… tired, but softer.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked suddenly.

I looked up, surprised.

“Yes,” I said, though I hadn’t.

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “That’s good.”

We went back to eating. It was almost nothing, just a few words,. but for the first time in a while, the air didn’t feel so suffocating.

When he stood up to leave, he said, “I’ll try pancakes tomorrow.”

And that night, I set my alarm earlier.

He kept his word.

When I entered the kitchen, the smell of pancakes filled the air: sweet, familiar, almost warm enough to feel like forgiveness.

He stood by the stove, sleeves rolled up, humming softly.

It was the same tune he used to hum years ago when we first moved in.

“Morning,” I said.

He turned, a bit startled, as though he hadn’t expected me to speak first.

“Morning,” he replied, smiling, a small, unsure smile.

I sat down and watched him flip the last pancake. He placed it on the plate in front of me.

They weren’t perfectly shaped, but they looked like an effort.

“You used to burn them,” I said quietly.

He laughed, low and genuine. “I still do. Just the other side.”

That made me smile — a real one, not the polite kind I’d been giving him these past days.

We ate. The pancakes were a little too thick, but I finished mine anyway.

And when he poured me some juice, I thanked him, and meant it.

No big words.

No confessions.

Just two people sharing breakfast, remembering something soft.

When he left for work, I found myself clearing the dishes before he could.

And later that day, I realized the house didn’t feel as empty anymore.

By the fourth morning, breakfast no longer felt like a duty.

He came in humming again — not loudly, just enough to fill the air with something other than silence.

He made omelettes this time.

They were uneven, one side golden, the other slightly brown.

I rushed to the table to see that he’d set the table with flowers, wild ones from the small garden behind the house.

They looked out of place, yet quite lovely.

“Did you pick these?” I asked.

He nodded, embarrassed. “They looked… alive. I thought maybe the table could use that."

I almost laughed. Almost.

“Thank you,” I said instead.

That morning, we talked: about something, actually nothing tangible.😂

The new receptionist at my office who forgot everyone’s names.

The neighbor’s dog who wouldn’t stop barking at night.

The light bulb in the hallway that kept flickering like those in KDrama alleys.

It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t romantic. But it was something.

On the fifth morning, he asked how my project at work was going.

I told him it was stressful.

He said, “You’ll handle it. You always do.”

I didn’t answer right away, but my chest tightened a little , because he sounded like the man I used to know.

Before he left, he turned at the door and said, “Saturday… would you like me to make something special?”

I shrugged. “If you want.”

But when he left, I caught myself wondering what “something special” meant.

Saturday came soft and bright.

The smell woke me before the sound: buttery, faintly spicy, like something old and familiar.

When I came out, he was standing at the counter, his back to me.

I didn’t even have to ask what he was making.

“Akara,” I said.

He turned, smiling. “Your favorite. From back in the old days, remember?”

Of course I remembered. He used to buy it for me every Sunday morning from that woman at the junction. We’d eat it together with pap and talk about everything we wanted to become.

Now, years later, the same smell filled our kitchen, but the air between us was different. Quieter. Older. Still, the memory found a way through.

He served it with pap, just like before.

It wasn’t perfect, too thick, a bit too salty but it tasted like something lost and found again.

“I can’t believe you remember this,” I said.

He chuckled. “I remember a lot of things.”

We ate without rush. No phones, no music, no walls.

For a moment, it didn’t feel like the two of us were falling apart anymore. It felt like… we were resting.

That evening, I caught myself replaying his words: "I remember a lot of things."

And I wondered if maybe, maybe, we could still turn things around.

By the eighth day, something had changed between us ,something so fragile I was almost afraid to touch it.

We still didn’t talk much, but the silences had begun to feel safe.

Then came Monday.

I came home late that night, tired, irritated, half-soaked from the rain.

The office had been chaos. Deadlines, calls, forgotten files.

And when I walked into the kitchen, I saw the dishes from breakfast still sitting in the sink.

A small, ridiculous thing but it felt like a crack.

He was watching TV in the living room, shoes still on, tie loosened, as if nothing had changed.

“I thought you said you’d do the dishes before work,” I said.

He blinked at me, surprised by the sharpness in my voice. “I was running late. I forgot.”

“You forgot,” I repeated.

The words came out colder than I meant.

He stood up slowly. “It’s just dishes, Mara.”

“It’s never just dishes,” I said, and suddenly I hated how familiar this argument sounded.

The air thickened. He turned off the TV, sighed, and began washing the plates.

I went straight to the bedroom, angry with him, angry with myself.

The next morning, the breakfast was there as usual: bread, eggs, fruit.

But neither of us spoke.

He slid the plate toward me gently, like offering peace.

I ate in silence, staring at the food, my throat tight.

I wanted to say I’m sorry, but pride sat heavy on my tongue.

On the tenth day, he placed a note beside my plate:

“I’ll keep bringing breakfast. Even if you can’t eat it with me today.”

I didn’t cry. Not then.

But that night, I found myself reading the note again and again until the words blurred. When did he become so considerate?

The next few mornings passed softly, like the house itself was holding its breath.

He didn’t bring any notes again, but he still came, steady as sunrise.

Bread. Porridge. Tea. Simple things, no words attached.

At first, I only nodded. But on the twelfth day, I finally spoke.

“About the other day…” I started.

He looked up from his plate, waiting.

“I shouldn’t have snapped,” I said, quietly. “It wasn’t really about the dishes.”

He smiled, not wide, just enough to reach his eyes.

“I know,” he said. “It’s never just about the dishes.”

That made me laugh: small, embarrassed, but real.

And for a moment, the heaviness lifted.

We talked a little after that, about my work, his new project, the rain that refused to stop.

Nothing deep, but it was enough.

By the thirteenth morning, he brought fried yam and stew. My favorite.

I teased him about burning the edges, and he grinned like he’d been waiting all week to hear that.

For the first time in months, the kitchen sounded alive again, the clinking of plates, the faint hum of his song, my laughter echoing against the walls.

And as he washed the dishes, I stood there watching him, thinking that maybe love wasn’t about fireworks after all. Maybe it was this, two people trying again, quietly.

The fourteenth day came with heavy clouds.

It rained through the night, and I barely slept. Work had been unbearable all week: files piling up, deadlines crawling closer.

When I reached home that evening, I saw three missed calls from my sister.

The message came in trembling words: Mama’s in the hospital.

I froze.

My heart beat so hard it hurt.

The next morning, I didn’t want breakfast. I didn’t want anything. But when I came out, he was there: same as always, setting the table with quiet hands.

He looked up, and the moment he saw my face, he stopped.

“What happened?” he asked.

I tried to answer, but my throat burned. I managed a whisper. “It’s Mama. She’s sick. They said it’s serious.”

For a second, the world just… stood still.

He came cloer, hesitant, unsure if I’d push him away.

“Sit,” he said softly. “Eat something.”

I shook my head. “I can’t.”

“Please.”

He poured the tea, slid the plate toward me. I stared at it, untouched, blurry through my tears.

And then, before I knew it, I broke.

I cried into my hands: deep, shaking sobs that had been waiting too long to escape.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to fix it. He just came closer and held me.

For the first time in months, I didn’t pull away.

The tea went cold again. The eggs dried on the plate. But it didn’t matter.

For once, silence wasn’t empty. It was comfort.

Later that evening, when I called my sister for an update, he sat beside me, holding my hand the whole time.

And when I hung up, exhausted and small, he said,

“You don’t have to go through everything alone, Mara.”

I nodded, tears fresh in my eyes. “I know.”

That night, I prayed: not just for Mama, but for us.

It was the eighteenth morning.

Two days since Mama had been discharged: weak, but recovering.

The sun came through the curtains in golden strips, soft and forgiving.

He was already in the kitchen. The smell of fried plantain drifted through the house.

When I came out, he smiled, that same unsure smile that had followed me through all the breakfasts.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” I replied.

We ate quietly. Bread. Tea. Plantain.

No tension, no weight. Just peace: the kind that comes when two people stop fighting the same storm and start standing in it together.

Afterward, he asked, “So… what happens now?”

I didn’t answer right away. I went to the bedroom, picked up my phone, and called the counselor.

“Yes,” I said. “This is Mara. We won’t be needing the divorce anymore.”

When I hung up, I found him standing by the window.

He looked at me, confused. “Who was that?”

“Our counselor,” I said.

He blinked. “Oh.”

I walked closer, close enough to see the sunlight in his eyes.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” I said, smiling.

He laughed , soft, relieved, and a little broken.

And then I reached for him.

At first, it was just a hug, the kind that melts years of distance.

But when I tiptoped and bridged the gap between our lips, it was more.

The kiss was slow, gentle, almost unsure, like they were remembering how to speak a language they once knew by heart.

When we finally pulled apart, I rested my forehead against his.

“We still don’t talk much,” I whispered.

He smiled. “Then we’ll just keep having breakfast.”

And that morning, for the first time in a long while, love felt quiet: but completely alive.

THE END!! ☺️

Thanks for reading to the end dear reader. Please follow me to read interesting short stories like this.

If you are looking for another interesting short romance story like this, please try "Half a loaf of love" by the same author.☺️

Goodness Akano.