The Quiet Between Them

 The Quiet Between Them

When Minh married An, he thought love would always sound like laughter.

In the early years, their small apartment was full of noise—music playing from Minh’s old speakers, An humming while cooking, their voices overlapping as they talked about everything and nothing. Love, Minh believed then, was something you could hear.

Ten years later, love sounded different.

On most evenings now, the apartment was quiet except for the ticking wall clock. Minh came home from work tired, loosened his tie, and sat on the sofa scrolling through his phone. An washed the dishes slowly, her movements careful, as if afraid to break the silence.

They were not angry with each other. That was the strange part. There were no shouting matches, no dramatic arguments. Just a growing space between them—soft, invisible, and heavy.

One night, during dinner, An asked, “Do you remember the mango tree near my parents’ house?”

Minh looked up, surprised. “The one that leaned over the fence?”

She nodded. “We used to sit under it when we were dating. You said the mangoes tasted sweeter there.”

Minh smiled faintly. “They probably were.”

They went back to eating. But the memory stayed with Minh long after the plates were cleared.

Later that night, lying in bed, Minh realized something that unsettled him: he remembered the mango tree clearly, but he couldn’t remember the last time he and An had talked like that—about nothing important, just memories and feelings.

The next morning, Minh woke up earlier than usual. He watched An sleeping beside him, her face calm, a few strands of hair resting across her cheek. For the first time in a long while, he felt afraid—not of losing her suddenly, but of losing her slowly.

At breakfast, he said, “Do you want to take a walk this weekend?”

An paused. “A walk?”

“Yes. Somewhere quiet. Just us.”

She studied his face, as if trying to understand the meaning behind the words. Then she smiled, small but real. “I’d like that.”

They went to a park by the river on Sunday morning. The air was cool, and the trees reflected softly on the water. For a while, they walked without speaking. But the silence felt different—lighter.

“I’ve been thinking,” Minh said at last. “I haven’t been listening enough.”

An stopped walking. “Listening to what?”

“To you. To us.”

She looked away, then back at him. “I didn’t want to complain,” she said quietly. “I thought we were just… growing older.”

“Maybe,” Minh replied. “But growing older doesn’t mean growing apart.”

They sat on a bench. An told him about the things she had kept to herself—how lonely she sometimes felt, how she missed the way they used to share small thoughts, how she feared becoming invisible in their own home.

Minh listened. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t defend himself. He just listened.

When it was his turn, he spoke about his work pressure, his exhaustion, and how he had mistaken silence for peace.

“I never stopped loving you,” he said. “I just forgot how to show it.”

An reached for his hand. “I never stopped either.”

That afternoon, they shared street food by the river, laughing when Minh spilled sauce on his shirt. The laughter sounded familiar, like an old song they both still knew.

Life did not change overnight. There were still quiet evenings, still tired days. But now, the quiet was shared. They cooked together sometimes. They walked more. They talked—even when the words were awkward.

Minh learned that love was not always loud. Sometimes, it lived in listening. In choosing, again and again, to turn toward each other.

And An learned that love did not fade because it grew silent—it faded only when no one tried to hear it anymore.

Together, they listened.