My man sleeps like a log. Every time he wakes up, he rolls over to me and gives me a good morning kiss, whether or not I’m awake. But when I wake up earlier than him, which happens often, I just lay there watching him. His breathing slow, chest rising and falling like the tide. His face is soft, peaceful, the lines of stress from the day before gone. And I always smile, because I know once his eyes blink open, his first thought is me.

We’ve been together seven years. Married for five. There are days it feels like we’re still learning each other, and other days it feels like we’ve known each other in some other life. But that kiss — that sweet, half-asleep, warm-lipped kiss — it’s always been the same. Steady. Predictable. And I used to think that was the safest thing in the world.

I remember the first time he did it. It was maybe our third sleepover. He had stayed the night at my tiny apartment, on my creaky mattress that dipped in the middle. We were still new then, still awkward in the mornings, still brushing our teeth in shifts like strangers playing house. But he rolled over, eyes barely open, and just kissed me. No warning, no hesitation. Like his body already knew mine.

That morning, I called my best friend and told her I was falling in love.

Years went by. Jobs changed, friends moved, we moved in, got married, lost some people, gained others. Life did its thing. But every morning, that kiss never missed a day.

Even the mornings when we fought the night before. Even the mornings after I cried myself to sleep over something I couldn’t explain. Even after I lost my dad and couldn’t find the strength to speak for days. That kiss came, soft and constant, like he was saying, “I’m here. Still here.”

So imagine my surprise the morning I woke up, turned over like I always did, and there was no kiss.

He was facing the wall. Curled up a little. Breathing, yes — thank God — but still. Still like he didn’t even know I was there.

I thought maybe he was just extra tired. I kissed his shoulder lightly, whispered “morning,” and got out of bed.

But the next morning, it happened again. No roll. No kiss. Just silence.

It started to bother me more than I wanted to admit.

I began paying attention. Watching him. Listening for changes. His breathing was the same. His sleep, the same. He didn’t seem angry, just… quieter. Like his body had forgotten the ritual.

I asked him if something was wrong.

“No, babe,” he said, rubbing my back. “Everything’s fine.”

But it wasn’t. I knew it. Because that kiss had never been just a habit. It was how I knew we were okay. It was how I knew I was still his safe place.

A week went by. No kiss.

I started waking up earlier on purpose. Hoping maybe I’d catch the moment, maybe I had just been turning my head too late. But no. His face stayed turned away. He got up without touching me.

My chest started to hurt in this low, quiet way. Not panic, not fear. Just that sinking kind of ache when something tiny starts to go missing. The kind of thing you tell yourself doesn’t matter, until it does.

One morning, I couldn’t take it anymore. I waited until he was brushing his teeth and I stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

He nodded, mouth full of toothpaste.

“Why’d you stop kissing me in the morning?”

He paused, spit into the sink, and looked at me through the mirror.

“What do you mean?” he said, half-laughing. “I didn’t stop.”

“Yes, you did,” I said. “You haven’t done it in over a week. You always used to. Every morning.”

He wiped his mouth and turned to me. “I didn’t even notice.”

That hit me harder than I expected.

“You didn’t notice?” I said, voice smaller than I wanted it to be.

“No,” he said. “I guess I’ve just been tired.”

And that was that. No apology. No real explanation. Just tired.

Something shifted after that. Not big, but enough. Like a window that had been cracked open just a little too long.

He started coming home later. Nothing outrageous — just thirty, forty minutes. I asked him once and he said he was stuck in traffic. I believed him. Mostly.

Then one Saturday, he said he had to go into work. Emergency meeting. He used to invite me for breakfast when he worked weekends. That Saturday, he just left.

That kiss in the morning… it really had been the thread. And now, I could feel the unraveling.

I talked to my sister. She told me to breathe, not to jump to conclusions.

“Maybe it really is just stress,” she said. “Don’t spiral.”

I tried. I really did.

But the silence in our home got louder.

He still said “love you” when we went to bed, but not always. Sometimes he’d just say “night.” Sometimes nothing.

One night, I went through his phone.

I know. I shouldn’t have. But I did.

And there it was.

Her name was Kelly. They worked together. Messages going back months. Nothing overtly romantic, but too familiar. Too comfortable. Too easy.

He had told her about a movie we saw before he even mentioned it to me.

He told her about his mom’s health scare before he told me.

He told her good morning.

Every single day.

I didn’t cry. Not right away. I just sat there on the bathroom floor, phone in hand, heart doing that weird thing where it beats too fast and too slow at the same time.

He was asleep in the next room. I could hear him snoring.

And for the first time, I didn’t want his kiss.

I waited until morning. I made coffee. Sat at the table. Waited for him to come in, rubbing his eyes, yawning like always.

He did.

“Morning,” he mumbled.

I slid the phone across the table. Open. Screen lit.

He stared at it. Then at me.

No denial. No outburst. Just… silence.

Finally, he sat down.

“I didn’t cheat,” he said.

“Maybe not physically,” I said. “But you gave her the part of you that used to be mine.”

He didn’t argue. He just sat there, head in his hands.

We didn’t scream. We didn’t cry. It was quiet. Too quiet.

He slept on the couch that night.

Days passed. We talked, sometimes. He said he was sorry. That he didn’t know why he let it get that far. That he thought we were drifting and didn’t know how to fix it.

I told him I noticed the moment it started — when he stopped kissing me in the morning.

He teared up then. Said he didn’t even realize.

“I think I forgot how much that meant to you,” he whispered.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

We started therapy. Couples sessions, individual ones too.

It wasn’t easy. I won’t lie and say it was some movie montage of progress and forgiveness. There were days I wanted to leave. Nights I questioned everything.

But we kept showing up.

The therapist asked us to create rituals. Small daily things that reminded us of each other. Not just the morning kiss, but more.

He started leaving me notes. Tiny ones. In the fridge, on the mirror, inside my shoes. Sometimes just a heart. Sometimes a whole paragraph.

I started making his coffee just the way he liked, even if I didn’t drink any myself.

We started holding hands on walks again.

One day, after about three months, I woke up to find him watching me.

He smiled.

“Missed my chance to kiss you first,” he said.

I laughed, a little.

Then he leaned in and kissed me anyway.

It wasn’t instant healing. But it was something.

A few weeks later, we went away for the weekend. Rented a cabin. No phones, no emails. Just us.

We cooked together, danced in the kitchen to old songs, sat by the fire reading.

One night, I looked over at him, and I saw it.

The man I fell in love with. Not the perfect man. But the man who kept choosing me, even when he’d gotten lost for a while.

“I still love you,” I said.

“I never stopped,” he whispered.

We’re not the same people we were when we met. We’ve changed, gotten bruised, grown up in ways we didn’t expect.

But the kiss came back.

Every morning.

Even now.

And now I know to kiss him first sometimes, too.

Because love isn’t always grand gestures and perfect routines.

Sometimes, it’s just remembering to turn toward each other instead of away.

So if you’re reading this, and you feel that ache — that slow, quiet ache that something small is slipping away — don’t wait too long to speak.

Love deserves a chance to heal before it’s too late.

If this story touched you, share it with someone you love. And don’t forget to like the post. It might just remind someone to turn back and kiss their person good morning.