Midnight Affairs

"Let me tell you about my day," you type in the subject line.

You woke up before Dan, as you always do. You moved quietly, taking great care not to stir him. It’s as if your presence is a nuisance. You make coffee and sip it alone while drafting an email to Midnight. Dan wouldn’t understand, and you’re not sure he’d even care at this point.

Like every day, Dan stirs only when his alarm tells him to. He rolls out of bed, showers, dresses, and barely acknowledges you. No hint of remembrance from last night's discussion. You can’t shake it; Dan barely even noticed it happened. The morning passes like all the others. You say goodbye. He grunts in response.

The house is silent after that.

SUBJECT: Let me tell you about my day

Sir,

Let me tell you about yesterday. I know I don’t have to ask, but I like to. It makes me feel like, in some small way, you want to know.

It was the same as always. Dan came home last night, dropped his bag, barely looked at me. I made dinner. He ate without saying much, his eyes glued to his phone, nodding when I spoke but not really listening. He played video games for the rest of the night, and I sat beside him, watching, waiting, wishing I felt like more than just furniture.

I tried, though. I tried to pull him into something real. I told him about the storm that afternoon—how the sky went dark and wild, how the rain felt electric against my skin when I ran outside just to feel something. I told him how I stood there, hair soaked, face tilted up, just breathing, just existing.

He grunted. That was it. That was all I got.

"Are you even listening?" I asked him.

He just sighed. "Not everything has to be a big deal."

So I swallowed it down, like I always do. And now, here I am.

Do you think I make too much of things? Maybe I do. Maybe this is just marriage. Maybe this is how it goes.

Tell me about your day. Please. I need the distraction.

-Silent Siren

You stare at the screen after hitting send, feeling a familiar mix of guilt and relief. You shouldn’t need this as much as you do. You shouldn’t feel more seen by someone you’ve never met than by the man sleeping in the next room. But you do.

And when the reply comes, you exhale.

SUBJECT: Re: Let me tell you about my day

Siren,

I’m here. I hear you. I always do.

You don’t make too much of things. You feel them deeply, and that’s not a flaw. That’s who you are. But I see what’s happening. You’re second-guessing yourself again, letting him make you believe that wanting more is unreasonable.

It’s not.

And I’m not going to let you sink into that lie.

I can picture you in the rain, head tilted back, lips parted, the storm drenching you in cold and color. That’s the woman I know—the one who still remembers what it feels like to be alive, even when the rest of the world tries to make her forget.

I wish I’d been there to see it. To take your chin in my hand, tilt it back up when you look down. To remind you that you don’t have to shrink just because someone else refuses to see you. You don't have to shrink for him.

My day? Uneventful. Just another evening at my desk, watching the world from a distance.

But now, I’m here. And you have my full attention. Even when you forget to need me.

-MidnightSpecter

Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you reply. There’s always a weight to his words—one that presses into you in ways you’re not sure you want to examine too closely. But you let yourself sink into it anyway.

SUBJECT: Re: Let me tell you about my day

Sir,

I read your words, and I feel them settle into my skin like something solid. Like something I need.

I hate how easy it is to let him make me feel small. How easily I fall into that space, waiting, hoping he’ll notice. I used to be more than this, didn’t I? I used to be bold. Before him. Before I let myself become whatever version of me fit into his life the easiest.

I try to be good. I try to be patient. But what if “good” just means quiet? What if “patient” just means waiting for something that will never come?

I keep thinking about what you said. About how you would tilt my chin up. You always do that, don’t you? Not just in words, but in the way you remind me—again and again—that I don’t have to apologize for wanting.

I don’t know what that means. Not yet. But I know I need to hear it.

Siren

You don’t check for a reply. Instead, you snap the laptop shut and move through the motions of getting dinner prepped, the house tidied, everything just so. Dan will be home soon, and you are nothing if not a good housekeeper; a good wife.

He never notices, of course. The vacuumed carpets, the folded laundry, the table set exactly as he likes it—all of it invisible, like you are.

You tell yourself tonight will be different. You’ll make him see you.

So you work faster, harder, as if productivity could silence the ache in your chest. Wives serve their husbands. That’s what you were taught.

But when the house is spotless and the meal is ready, you retreat back to the bedroom. Back to the laptop. Back to Midnight’s words—his attention like fingertips grazing your jaw, reminding you that you exist.

SUBJECT: Re: Let me tell you about my day

Silent Siren,

You used to be bold. I know that because I see it in you even now. It’s still there, waiting beneath the surface. You just need to stop asking permission to be yourself.

You are not small. You never were. You're stronger than you think - when you listen to me.

But you keep folding yourself into smaller and smaller pieces, hoping someone else will be comfortable with the shape you take. And the worst part? He doesn’t even notice. You could disappear completely, and he’d only wonder why dinner wasn’t ready.

I could tell you what I think you should do, but I won’t. Not yet. Because I think you already know. I think you’ve known for a long time. You’re just waiting for someone to tell you it’s okay to want more.

So, listen carefully. It’s okay.

Whatever you need, whatever you decide—I’ll be here. No one else will see the beautiful you the way I do.

Midnight

You close the laptop, heart hammering. You press your fingers against your lips, as if you can still taste the words on your skin. You wait a moment, savoring the flavor of MidnightSpecter before penning a response.

SUBJECT: Re: Let me tell you about my day

Sir,

I think I stopped breathing for a second when I read that.

I don’t know why hearing it from you makes it feel more real. Maybe because you don’t placate me. Maybe because you don’t tell me what I want to hear—you tell me what I already know, but in a way that makes me believe it.

I think this is the closest I’ve come to telling the truth in a long time.

I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know if I can be as brave as you think I am. But I do know this: I want more. And maybe, finally, I’m ready to start figuring out what that means.

Are you proud of me?

-Silent Siren

You received his reply almost instantaneously.

SUBJECT: Re: Let me tell you about my day

Silent Siren,

Yes.

Always,

MidnightSpecter

The front door opens, and Dan’s voice carries in before he does—loud, loose, already laughing at something in his earpiece. “—no way, man, you’re actually trash at CoD—” He kicks off his shoes and beelines for the fridge without looking at you. He grabs a beer and twists it open. The cap hits the floor. You wait. He doesn’t pick it up.

"Dinner’s ready," you say. He holds up a finger—one second—then pauses, his eyes flickering to yours just long enough for you to think he is going to ask about you. But the voice in his earpiece laughs, and his focus shatters. He takes a swig and nods at the phone. "Yeah, yeah, I’m here." The food grows cold between you.

Finally, he drops into his chair, phone propped against the salt shaker. He shovels a forkful in, chews, and only then finally talks to you. “Oh. Hey.”

You open your mouth—about to tell him about the storm, the rain, the way the air smelled like ozone—when his eyes dart back to the screen. He taps his earpiece. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Just eating real quick.” A pause. “No, obviously I’m still on for the grind after. You think I’d bail?”

You stare at him. He doesn’t notice. The fork in your hand feels heavy. You could scream. You could flip the table.

Instead, you say, “I went outside yesterday.”

“Mm.” He’s texting now, thumb flying. The fork in his other hand stabs at his food absently. “Cool.”

You push. “There was a storm.”

“You went out in the storm? You're going to catch a cold.” He doesn’t look up. “Hope you closed the windows.”

Something inside you crumples. He’s not cruel—just empty. A man who hears you and doesn’t listen. Who looks at you and doesn’t see. Who shares a life with you and doesn’t live it.

His phone buzzes. He grins. “Oh hell yeah, the boys are on.” He stands, plate half-finished, and pauses—just for a second—to frown at your untouched food. “You good?”

The question is so perfunctory it burns. You could tell him no. You could say you are so far from good. But his earpiece is crackling, his friends are waiting, and his thumbs are already typing a response. So you nod. “Yeah.”

“Cool.” He grabs his controller. “Don’t stay up.”

SUBJECT: Re: Let me tell you about my day

Sir,

I don’t know, but I might be ready. I’m not sure I ever will be, more than now. It’s one thing to talk about change, to dream about it, but it’s another thing entirely to make it happen.

Dan thinks everything is fine. That we don’t need to fix what isn’t broken. But he doesn’t see it, does he? He doesn’t see the cracks. The ones that are getting wider every day.

I keep thinking about you. About how much you make me feel alive. Like I’m not just someone’s wife, someone’s caretaker. I feel like I matter when we talk. And it scares me to admit that to myself.

What does this mean? I don’t know. I really don’t.

I guess I’m afraid to look for something real because I might lose what I have. Even if what I have isn’t much.

But you’re right. I can’t keep living this way, pretending to be okay when I’m not.

Silent Siren

His reply takes too long. You stare at the ceiling, sleepless, wondering if even Midnight has abandoned you tonight. The silence presses in, heavy with questions: Is any of this worth it? Will Dan ever really see you?

Then you hear a sound. It’s the sharp ding of your computer, slicing through the dark.

SUBJECT: Re: Let me tell you about my day

Silent,

I know it’s terrifying. The thought of leaving behind what you know, even if it doesn’t make you happy. But trust me, staying where you are is a slow death. You’re not really living.

The truth is, you’ve already taken the first step. You’re seeing it now. You’re realizing that you’re worth more than this. You deserve someone who sees you for who you really are—not just the parts that serve him, but the whole of you.

Dan never sees this side of you. It's only for me. But don't overthink it.

You don’t have to decide everything all at once. But you’ve already started to change. Just by acknowledging that you want something more, something real.

You’re stronger than you think. Don’t settle for less than what you deserve.

And remember, I’m here. Whatever happens next, I’m here.

I'll always catch you. I wonder if he ever could?

-MidnightSpecter

You crafted your reply quickly. How could you not?

SUBJECT: Re: Let me tell you about my day

Dear Sir,

I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know how to take the next step. But I know I can’t keep living in this half-life.

I’ve been trying to fit into this box that isn’t me. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the courage to leave, but I’ll start by taking control of my own happiness. I’ll start by speaking up more. For me.

Thank you for reminding me that I matter.

Silent Siren

You finally nod off. After a few hours of restless sleep, you rise before Dan, as you always do, after all.

SUBJECT: A Request

My Sir,

I’ve spent so long waiting—for Dan to notice me, for this marriage to feel like more than a ghost story where I’m the only one haunted. But you see me even when I’m invisible.

I don’t want to just write anymore. I want to hear your voice.

Call me.

-SilentSiren

You hover over the send button for three trembling breaths before releasing it into the void.