Dear Sarah, 

I wish you would talk to me because writing things down is not my style. The act itself feels so pointless. I’m penning my thoughts down in detail, putting my feelings into words, making ink seep into the sepia and it makes me wonder and laugh both of which eventually fall into the abyss of sadness because I know you have never cared to know me. So what are these thoughts worth? 

The depth of your indifference never ceases to impress me. Apathy, my dear love, is your superpower, and on the days it doesn’t wreck me, I almost envy it. 

I’ve been noticing your blank stares lately, wondering the reasons behind them. You have this way of getting what you want, but it does not compare to the way you discard what stops serving you. Twin blades in your arsenal. What I want to know Sarah is that have I stopped serving you? Let me know, love. 

By the way, it’s day six and counting, I haven’t picked up my dirty socks from the couch. Oh the pleasure, the triumph, the sick satisfaction to watch them sit there day after day. The silent treatment works both ways.   

Yesterday, when I came back from work. You were in bed, snuggled under the sheets. It reminded me of the first year of our marriage. Back when we could still hold a conversation. Tired as we used to feel in our bones from the double shifts and the pressure from our families, we persisted. Somewhere I believe we scotch-taped the fractures in our delicate little relationship. Anyway, the image of you in bed fast asleep, spilled like champagne, snaking under covers reminded me of why we fell in love. Why I  fell in love with you. I wanted that back, Sarah. I have longed for it for so long to be a little drunk on you, drunk on us. Don’t you see? The baby would’ve fixed this.