When Love Turns to Painful Agony
I watch the adaptation of “Romeo and Juliet” again, thinking, “At least their love ended in death.”
Unlike mine—a prolonged, painful fading of feelings that my life has become.
The Beginning of the Tale
I grew up in a small town where everyone knew each other. I was inseparable from my best friend, Helen, since childhood.
Her brother, Peter, was like a guardian angel to us—always around, always protective.
As a child, I barely noticed him—just an ordinary “best friend’s older brother.”
But everything changed when I became a teenager.
Suddenly, I found him looking at me.
I noticed how he would casually eavesdrop on our conversations and be the first to pick up the phone when I called Helen.
Peter started joining us more on our outings, to the movies and cafes.
Then one day, he asked me on a date.
It was the most romantic evening of my life.
I stayed up all night dreaming about the future.
When I told Helen the next morning, she just chuckled:
“Peter’s been in love with you for ages. You just didn’t notice.”
From that moment, we were inseparable.
Perfect Happiness
We were both building our careers: I was studying at a music academy, performing in an orchestra.
Peter graduated in architecture, taught at a university, and worked for a major firm.
Every success of his was mine, and my victories were his joy.
He never missed a concert, sitting in the front row with a huge bouquet.
It was a love everyone envied.
Peter was tall, handsome, blue-eyed—as if he stepped out of an ancient Greek painting.
I couldn’t complain about a lack of attention either.
But he was my only one, and I was his.
The wedding was perfect.
The honeymoon—straight out of a movie.
Then came the birth of our daughters, a cozy home, financial stability.
What more could one ask for happiness?
How Love Dies
But one day I realized: Peter became a stranger to me.
We no longer had heart-to-heart conversations.
We no longer touched each other for no reason.
We no longer laughed.
It became cold.
Peter hadn’t changed.
And neither had I.
But love vanished.
And it was replaced with irritation, boredom, emptiness.
Everything I Lost
Peter was never a tyrant.
But he was always against my career.
“A wife should be at home, not touring everywhere!” he insisted.
His mother echoed the sentiment.
Eventually, I gave in.
I turned down international concerts.
I gave up the career I dreamed of since childhood.
But that wasn’t it.
When his mother insisted we give our apartment to Peter’s sister because “she needed it more,” I conceded again.
We stayed in his parents’ house.
I lost everything.
A Painful Existence
Peter’s jealousy poisoned every day.
He interrogated me if I had coffee with colleagues even once.
“If nothing happened, why smile at him?”
I grew tired of justifying myself.
Tired of feeling guilty just for being alive.
Yet when I mentioned divorce, a melodrama would ensue titled “I’ll Die Without You.”
He claimed to be unwell.
Lashed out at doctors.
Scared me that one day he might not wake up.
I believed him and pitied him.
And stayed.
Day by day. Year by year.
Now I’m terrified to look in the mirror.
That’s not me.
Foreign Lives, Foreign Dreams
My friend Helen, who once played matchmaker, avoids me now.
She and her mother are my personal tribunal.
They both see me as ungrateful.
After all, Peter is “such a good man,” “a caring father,” “the perfect husband.”
How can I make them understand that I’m suffocating in this marriage?
How do I say that I hate him?
That every morning I wake up thinking, “When will this end?”
But it doesn’t end.
Love died long ago.
Yet my marriage has turned into a long and painful agony.
Now I understand why Romeo and Juliet died
Death is a tragedy.
But when love dies and bodies continue living together, it’s far more frightening.
I’d prefer to end this story once and for all.
But I am not Juliet.
And Peter is not Romeo.
We are just two strangers in the same house, bound only by the past.
So why am I so scared to leave?
