Charlie Forde – I Love My Wife – Missax ✭

“I love my wife,” Charlie whispers to the bathroom mirror. It’s not a confession. It’s an incantation. He says it three times, hoping the words will stitch themselves back into something that feels true instead of just heavy.

She sees him. That’s the cruel joke. She sees the version of Charlie who forgot her birthday two years ago, who works late by choice not necessity, who stopped looking at her like she was the answer and started looking at her like she was a question he was tired of trying to solve. charlie forde – i love my wife – missax

The trouble isn’t that he loves her less. The trouble is that love, for him, has become a tax. Every gesture—the coffee he brews, the car he warms up in winter, the way he still opens her door—comes with a receipt he never hands over but never forgets. I did this. I did that. Why don’t you see me? “I love my wife,” Charlie whispers to the

Tonight, she’ll be sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling her phone, the cold light carving shadows under her eyes. He’ll say, “How was your day?” and she’ll say, “Fine,” and the word will land between them like a wall. And Charlie will think, I love my wife, and wonder why that sentence feels like an ending instead of a beginning. He says it three times, hoping the words

He rolls over to look at her. His wife.