The Weight of Us

In the hushed stillness of a rainy evening, as the world outside was cloaked in muted hues of grey, I sat beside the window, letting the soft, insistent drizzle obscure the sharp lines of my thoughts. The past three months had unfurled before me like an unexpected letter, one I hadn’t foreseen but could not now imagine living without. Marriage, at least the way I had envisioned it, was supposed to be tidy, like a perfectly folded letter, crisp and direct. But this—"we"—was something far more intricate, far more exquisite.

I had assumed I knew what love was. After all, doesn’t everyone at some point believe they understand it? But then I found him. I found "us", and the shape of it was unlike anything I had anticipated.

I recall, in passing, before we were even engaged, saying that I would not take his surname after marriage. To me, it represented a deeper autonomy I wasn’t willing to surrender. But months later, standing at the altar, the priest casually mentioned that the church required us to share a surname to be recognized as a unified entity. I braced myself for the familiar internal conflict, knowing I had dug my heels into the earth of this decision. But then, I saw his face—the subtle crease of his brow before he looked at me and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll sort it out.”

And so he did. Over the coming weeks, he navigated through the labyrinth of church protocol, securing a compromise where we could retain our individual names while still being ‘one.’ He took it upon himself, not because I demanded it, but because he knew. 

There were countless moments like that. Like when he would go to the cigarette vendor, despite his disdain for my habit, because he knew I needed that brief respite after a long, taxing day. It never failed to amuse me how he would rail against being overcharged—twenty per cigarette, when they were only worth seventeen—but he never hesitated. He would buy them, not because it was necessary, but because it would make me feel just a little better. 

He didn’t want me to smoke, of course. But he never said a word about it. Instead, he’d quietly walk to the vendor, even though he found the whole transaction utterly exasperating. He did it because he knew that "I" needed it. Even if I hadn’t voiced the need. 

One morning, I awoke feeling irritable, fractious, and in a foul mood. My temper flared for no reason, and before I knew it, I was quarrelling over something trivial—my relative badgering me with questions about the wedding photographer. It seemed absurd in retrospect, but at that moment, it felt like a mountain. And then I saw him. Sitting there, calm as a sea on a windless day, his face unflinching as I lashed out with words that were as sharp as they were unjust.

Half an hour later, when the storm in me had finally subsided, I apologized, feeling the weight of my behavior. “Is there anything you’ve been holding in? Anything you want to say?” I asked, wanting to make amends.

“No,” he replied, his voice steady, the edges of his lips curling into a small, knowing smile. “People need their outlets sometimes. You’re allowed yours.” 

I was astounded. Here I was, asking for forgiveness, and he was offering me nothing but "space"—space to be imperfect, space to be human. He had no need to assert his own grievances. It was enough for him to simply be there. I loved him more in that moment than I thought was possible.

He was always like that—forever putting my needs before his, tending to me in ways that never once felt obligatory. I can still picture him, folding laundry with a quiet patience, even after a punishingly long day, or sitting down beside me after his unpredictable work schedule to share a meal, to share a moment of peace. Our lives intertwined effortlessly, even when the world outside seemed to pull us in all directions. 

But it was the moments of physical closeness that stood out most. When we would ride his bike together, my arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly from behind, unwilling to leave even the slightest gap between us. I loved the way he would arch his back ever so slightly, as if he were trying to eliminate every molecule of air between us, bringing our bodies so close we felt like one. 

The kisses—those infinite, tender exchanges that seemed to stretch on forever, soft and unhurried. I never needed more than that. In those moments, I felt "seen", cherished, as though he could read my heart without a single word spoken. They were the language of our love, the only language we needed.

How could it be, I often wondered, that in such a brief span of six months of courtship and three months of marriage, we had become so irrevocably, unalterably entwined? How could I love someone so completely, so entirely, in so little time? 

But the answer came to me without hesitation: "we were soulmates". Of that, I was certain. 

At times, I would joke to myself—perhaps I should have courted others before him, just to compare. But even as the words formed in my mind, I knew they were hollow. The truth was clear: I had known, from the very first time we spoke, that he was the one. I had known even before we were engaged, before we were married, that "he" was the one who would define my life, who would make it whole.

I joked with him sometimes about how our families must have blessed us in a past life, because someone as extraordinary as him couldn’t possibly be the result of just my own deeds. He was the fruit of many good things, a culmination of all the love and kindness that had ever been sent my way.

He remembered the smallest things, those fleeting comments I had long since forgotten. Like how once a month, he would get me a gift—just because. And how, once a week, he would insist on taking me out on a date, simply to make me feel special. Not because I expected it, but because he wanted me to know that I was worth the effort. I had never known anyone who gave so freely, so naturally. 

There were no demands between us. No compromises that felt like sacrifices. We simply gave. And in return, we found each other.

Late at night, when we would collapse into laughter, completely unhinged by the day’s burdens, I would marvel at the joy of it all. I had never felt more connected to someone. Never more "alive". How had it happened so quickly? How had I fallen so deeply, so completely, in such a short time?

But I knew, deep within my soul, that it was real. We were real. Our love was not the product of time; it was the product of something deeper, something that had always been there, waiting for us.

In the end, as the rain outside tapered off into nothing more than a whisper, I closed my eyes, murmuring a silent prayer of gratitude.

I had never known love like this. And I never wanted to know anything else.

("The Weight of Us" reflects the profound, shared emotional depth and significance of the couple's intertwined lives and love.)