A newly married couple lay quietly in bed, the soft hum of the night surrounding them. The man, his curiosity getting the better of him, turned to his wife and asked gently, “How many men have you slept with before me?”

The question hung in the air. The woman didn’t move — her eyes fixed on the ceiling, her face calm but unreadable. The man waited, expecting a laugh or a playful reply, but the silence stretched longer than he expected.

After a moment, he tried again, forcing a smile. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said lightly. “I just want to know. You can tell me.”

Still, no answer. She remained perfectly still, her eyes wide open. The man’s curiosity began to turn into unease. “Honey?” he whispered, glancing toward her. “Why won’t you answer me?”

Her silence seemed almost deliberate, echoing through the dimly lit room. He sighed, unsure whether to press further or let it go. Something about her stillness felt strange — unnatural, even.

Then he heard something faint. A whisper. Barely audible. Her lips were moving, but not forming words for him. He leaned closer, trying to catch what she was saying.

It wasn’t a conversation — it was a rhythm. A quiet murmur. Her mouth moved with small, steady motions, and as he listened harder, realization began to dawn.

She wasn’t ignoring him. She was counting — softly, silently, one number after another. His heart sank as the truth hit him, cold and unmistakable. She hadn’t answered because she hadn’t finished.

What started as an innocent question had turned into something far more unsettling — and as she continued counting beneath her breath, the man could only stare into the darkness, wishing he’d never asked.