Why Do You Look At Me That Way?

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

It’s not even seven in the morning, and sunlight is already pouring through the kitchen window, tracing zebra stripes of gold and shadow across the old linoleum and the cluttered countertop. I’m standing by the coffee maker, clutching my mug so tightly my knuckles are white. Chris sits across from me, his red-rimmed eyes darting everywhere but at me, tracing the light as if it might offer some escape.

I know that look. I know it like I know the sound of his laugh, or the way he sighs when he’s frustrated. It’s disappointment, and something sharper—maybe betrayal. I set my cup down, the clink too loud in the hush of the kitchen. “Well? Aren’t we okay, just the two of us?”

He doesn’t answer. Just blinks, slow and heavy, as if he can’t bring himself to say what he’s thinking. I press on, my voice trembling. “It’s not like I didn’t tell you. I was upfront. I never wanted…”

He stands, chair scraping, and looks at me with that mixture of hope and fear that makes my heart twist. “People change, Zoey.” His voice is soft, almost pleading. “I thought maybe you’d change.”

I turn away, staring out the window at the neighbor’s maple tree, its leaves trembling in the early breeze. “I haven’t.”

The silence settles between us, thick and sticky. It’s not new. We’ve danced around this for years, especially at family holidays when his mom asks, “So, when are you two making me a grandma?” and I force a smile, and Chris squeezes my hand too tightly under the table.

But this morning is different. This morning, the air is buzzing with everything we haven’t said. The coffee tastes bitter, and my stomach is twisted in knots. I wonder if he can hear my heart pounding, if he knows how scared I am.

“I just…” he starts, then stops. He rubs his face. “All our friends, Zoey. Everyone’s posting baby pictures. My brother, even Sam—remember how he swore he’d never settle down? Now he’s got twins. Don’t you ever feel like we’re missing something?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t. I love our life. I love you. Isn’t that enough?”

He slumps back into his chair, defeated. “For you, maybe.”

In that moment, I realize it’s not just about kids. It’s about everything we thought our life would be, everything our families want for us, everything the world insists is ‘normal.’

We grew up here, in this small Ohio town. Everyone gets married young, has kids, buys a house with a porch swing and a backyard grill. That’s what people do. Except I don’t want that. I never have. I want to travel, to write, to have lazy Saturday mornings where we sleep in and make pancakes at noon. I want to be free, even if it means being different.

But Chris—he wants the noise and the mess and the sticky little hands. He wants to teach someone to ride a bike, to have a reason to hang Christmas stockings.

“I don’t want to lose you,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “But I can’t give you what you want.”

He looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time in weeks. His eyes are wet. “I love you, Zoey. God, I love you. But I don’t know how to stop wanting this.”

I want to reach for him, to make it better, but I know I can’t. I can’t pretend. I can’t change who I am, not even for him.

Later, after he’s left for work, I sit at the kitchen table, tracing circles in a pool of sunlight, and think about all the things we don’t talk about. About the pressure, the questions, the way my mother’s voice tightens when I tell her—again—that she shouldn’t expect grandkids from me. About the way Chris’s friends slap him on the back and joke about us being ‘selfish’ or ‘missing out.’

I think about the nights we lie in bed, backs to each other, the silence echoing between us. About how I love him so much it aches, but how I love my freedom, too. And how I wonder if that makes me broken.

A week later, we sit across from each other in a couples’ therapist’s office, the air thick with old pain and fresh hope. The therapist asks us to talk about our dreams, our fears. Chris talks about a house full of laughter and chaos. I talk about quiet mornings and road trips and a life that’s ours alone.

“Is there a compromise?” the therapist asks gently.

Chris shakes his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. “How do you compromise on a person?”

We drive home in silence. That night, he sleeps on the couch. In the morning, he’s gone before I wake up.

Days pass. I go through the motions—work, errands, dinner alone. I try to picture a life without him, and I can’t. But I also can’t picture a life where I give in, have a child just to keep him. That wouldn’t be fair to anyone.

Finally, one Sunday morning, he comes home with a duffel bag and a heart full of apologies. We sit on the porch, legs touching, not speaking for a long time. He takes my hand. “You’re not broken, Zoey. I just wish I didn’t feel so empty.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

We both know it’s the end. We both cry, and then, somehow, we let go.

Now, months later, I walk the same quiet streets, see the same neighbors, hear the same questions. But I also feel lighter, like I’ve finally stopped pretending. I still love Chris. Maybe I always will. But I love myself, too, and for the first time, that feels like enough.

Do we owe the people we love the dreams they want, even if it means losing ourselves? Or is it braver to risk heartbreak for a chance at being truly seen? I wonder if anyone else has ever felt this way.