Let’s take two contrasting heroines. The first is Gerda from "The Snow Queen". The second is the Little Mermaid.

Gerda is a voice. She does not wait to be understood without words. She acts. She walks through snow and storms; she speaks, she cries, she shouts about her loss and her love. And at the climax of the fairy tale, it is precisely her hot tears, her words, her persistent presence that melt the ice in Kai's heart.

She does not sacrifice herself in silence. She sacrifices her comfort and her safety, but not her voice.
Her strength lies in honesty, which proves stronger than silent suffering.

A modern-day Gerda is a woman who does not wait for someone to notice and decipher her pain and her needs telepathically. She knows: to be seen, you must show yourself. To be heard, you must speak.

Now let’s look at the Little Mermaid.

Her story is a hymn to silent self-sacrifice. She experiences an incredible range of emotions: delight, love, longing, pain. But in order to be with her beloved, she agrees to a bargain: she gives up her voice. Her very essence, the thing that once enchanted the prince.

And what do we see in the end?

She becomes invisible in what matters most. Her love, deprived of a voice, turns into a mute torment. Her suffering is invisible and, therefore, as if it doesn’t exist.

The archetype of the Little Mermaid is a story of love built on silence. And the sad truth is that the one who remains silent remains unknown.

If we claim that love is some kind of wordless feeling in which there can be no dialogue within a couple, it ceases to be intimacy. In that case, one partner withdraws into themselves while the relationship formally continues.

Outwardly, everything seems filled with feelings, but inside there is a lot of pain and detachment. And everything appears fine until one moment, a tsunami happens and the couple breaks up. Friends shrug their shoulders: "But everything seemed so good between them!"

A request: "I'm tired. Could you wash the dishes?" There’s a question mark at the end and space for an answer.

An expectation: we silently wash the dishes, clattering plates, thinking, "How can he not see this?! Is this really love?" At the end — resentment.

A demand: "You have to help me! We’re a family!" At the end — resistance and guilt.

We’re afraid that behind the word "no" lies the truth about our incompatibility. "What if I say that spending time together is important to me, and he answers that it doesn’t interest him?" Reality is scarier than illusion.

This creates a paradox: two people live together, but a real meeting in the present never happens. They live for years in parallel realities: one waiting for a miracle, the other in confusion.

And this is not a month or two. It can be years of inner loneliness.

This is not about starting fights. It’s about learning to negotiate. And you don’t start with your partner — you start with yourself.

At what moments do you choose to stay silent? What do you feel at those moments? And most importantly — what category does your unspoken thought belong to: a request, an expectation, or a demand?

Try to "translate" your inner monologue. For example:

Examine your expectations. Answer honestly: what am I really expecting from this relationship? Be specific: "having breakfast together," "hugs for no reason," "support for my projects," and so on. Where does this expectation come from? Childhood? Past relationships? Books and movies? Why is it so important to me?

Before: "I'm angry that he never spends time with the kids!" (Resentment, demand.)

Awareness: "I expected him to be more involved in their lives." (Recognizing the script.)

This is the most mature skill. You have the right to ask. He has the right to say "not now" or "I can’t do that."

What matters is not the refusal itself, but what’s behind it. "I can’t on Saturday, I have a deadline. But how about Sunday?" That’s not rejection; it’s a search for compromise.

Speak. Just start speaking. Don’t wait for the perfect moment — it won’t come. The first time will be scary. Start small, with the simplest request.

You can even say: "You know, it’s hard for me to ask this, but I really need your help with…" or "I felt sad when… Can we talk about it?"

Silence in relationships comes in different forms. There is a nourishing, peaceful silence — when it’s good just to be quiet together. And then there is the dense, heavy silence of things left unsaid. That silence doesn’t connect, it separates.

It’s a risk. The risk of being real. But only this risk gives birth to the genuine, warm, living intimacy that we all dream of.