**The Loud Silence**
“He wont speak to me!” Emilys voice trembled down the phone. “Ive apologized five times, even bought three kinds of cheese! Nothing. He just sits there, glued to his monitor, acting like I dont exist.”
“Then stop dancing around him. Come over,” Sophie said. “Let him cool off. Mums baking steak-and-kidney piesmy favourite. And yours! It smells like home, not this bloody silence.”
Emily smiled. She could almost taste the rich, buttery pastry from Aunt Beatrices kitchen. Every week after school, she and Sophie had devoured those pies, laughing between bites. Sophie had been her neighbour, her classmate, her closest friend.
Theyd dreamed togethercareers, weddings, families side by side. Emily loved visiting Sophies chaotic, warm house, where laughter drowned out the mess and Aunt Beatrices cooking made everything right.
Her own home had been different. Spotless. Silent. Her mother, stern and distant, never raised her voicejust let grievances fester for weeks. Emily remembered the icy quiet between her parents, the way her mothers indifference cut deeper than shouting. Once, at sixteen, shed hurled a book at her, desperate for any reaction. Her mother had simply raised an eyebrow and walked away. That day, Emily swore shed never live like that.
Now her husband was doing the same.
There had been warnings, of course.
James once joked with friends that Emily had “won the lottery”a husband with a London flat. Shed laughed and shot back, “Whos the lucky one, really?” His face had darkened, and for three days, hed spoken only in monosyllables.
Another time, shed gone to bed early instead of staying up with his mates. A week of silence followed. But back then, infatuation had made it all seem trivial.
Now, four days in, Emily called Sophie, suffocating under the weight of his quiet. The reason? Shed forgotten his favourite cheddar. Not on purposejust slipped her mind. Humiliated, guilty, invisible, she fled to Sophies.
Aunt Beatrice took one look at her and tutted. “Love, if you dont nip this in the bud now, youll spend your life tiptoeing. Some families dont arguethey just freeze. He doesnt know any other way.”
“My parents did the same,” Emily admitted.
“And were they happy? Is that what you want?”
“No, but he just says, Leave me alone.”
“Then do. Cook for *you*. Go out with friends. Make silence *his* problem, not yours. Sulkers need an audience.”
“You think itll work?”
“Dunno. But Id try. And if notleave. Lifes too short for this nonsense. How can you share a bed with someone who treats you like air?”
The next morning, watching Jamess turned back, Emily felt something newnot hurt, but resolve. *No. This ends now.*
She remembered Sophies parents: “Theyll bicker over where to plant roses, but give them ten minutes, and theyre laughing again. Dad cracks a joke; Mum storms off, then comes back with tea. Never more than two hours.”
*Two hours.* It sounded impossible. But it was a start.
That evening, after James ate alone and slumped in front of the telly, Emily switched it off. “We need to talk. Not about cheese. About *us*.”
He reached for his phone.
“I mean it. I wont play these games anymore. Silence isnt solving anythingits cruelty.”
“Leave me alone,” he muttered.
“Fine.” Her voice stayed steady. “But know this: from tomorrow, Im out. Youre silent? Then youve nothing to say. Ill live my lifecook for me, see friends, watch my shows. Youll be my flatmate. If thats what you want, keep quiet.”
She walked out. No pleading, no tears. Just new rules: his silence wouldnt stop her world.
James scoffed and flicked the telly back on.
The next morning, no breakfast waited. He drank black coffee and left. No dinner that night. Emily chatted loudly with Sophie about weekend cinema plans.
Later, she faced him. “Youre angry. Fine. But lets set a limit. Two hours. Its seven now. At nine, we talkcalmly. If you refuse, the problem isnt me. Its you.”
James stared. His weapontimewas being taken.
“Thats ridiculous.”
“No. Adults pretending theyre strangers for *days* is ridiculous. Nine oclock.”
He didnt come at nine. But at eleven, climbing into bed, he broke first.
“You sound like one of your soap-opera therapists. Its daft.”
Emily breathed deep. A week ago, shed have snapped. Now she just said, “It hurts when you shut me out. Ill listen if youre upset. But I wont spend weeks guessing.”
James was quiet. But this silence was differentnot cold, just thoughtful.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Forgetting the cheese was disrespectful.”
“Or human?” she asked gently. “Do you never forget things?”
He had no answer. By morning, hed made breakfast for two.
“Truce?” she checked.
He nodded.
“Brilliant. Ill make your favourite fish pie tonight.”
Six months later, the silent treatments hadnt vanished. Old habits die hard. But now, there were rules.
“Youre sulking?” Emily would say. “Two hours. Then we talk.”
And it worked. James would storm offbut return, two hours later, with a grudging “I overreacted” or “That bothered me.” Sometimes he needed a whole day. Emily didnt mind. Shed meet friends, then wait for his peace-offering fry-up.
Shed learned the hardest lesson: escaping a toxic pattern isnt enough. You must rewrite the scriptand stick to it.
