I looked at him one Tuesday night and realized we hadn't touched in four months. Not really touched. Not the kind that makes you feel seen.
We were sitting on opposite ends of the couch me scrolling TikTok, him watching some documentary about WWII tanks. Roommates. That's what we'd become. Two people sharing a wifi password and a grocery bill. The silence wasn't even awkward anymore; it was just... there. Like background noise.
I remember thinking, is this it? Is this what happens after the wedding photos go in the album and the thank-you cards get sent? You just... coexist until one of you dies?
The Breaking Point
It wasn't dramatic. No slammed doors, no "we need to talk" moments. It was smaller than that. I asked him what he wanted for dinner and he said "whatever," and I felt this rage bubble up out of nowhere. Not about the dinner. About the whatever. About how that word had become his answer to everything. Whatever you want. Whatever works. Whatever gets us through another evening without actually having to engage.
I went to bed that night and stared at the ceiling until 3am. I could hear him snoring. I hated him a little bit. I hated myself more.
The Accidental Discovery
A week later, I'm venting to my sister who, btw, has been married for 12 years and actually still likes her husband (suspicious, I know) and she hits me with this: "Have you heard of the 777 thing?"
I hadn't. Sounded like a slot machine. Or a cult.
But she explained it. Not the polished version you see in articles. The real one. The one that saved her marriage when she was ready to walk.
Every 7 days: one real date. Not "we ordered Thai and watched Netflix." Actual pants-with-buttons, phones-in-purses, looking-at-each-other's-faces time.
Every 7 weeks: get out of your house. Sleep somewhere else. Even a cheap motel two towns over. Change the scenery or you change nothing.
Every 7 months: blow it out. The kind of trip where you remember why you picked this person in the first place.
I was skeptical. It sounded too structured. Too... intentional. Like, shouldn't love just happen? Shouldn't he just want to plan stuff?
But here's what I learned: waiting for someone to read your mind is a great way to die angry.
The First 7 Days
I proposed it badly. Like, really badly. "We need to do this thing my sister told me about because we're basically dead inside."
He looked wounded. Then interested. Then scared. The trifecta.
But we tried. First date was a disaster. We went to that Italian place we used to love and sat there like strangers. I talked about work drama. He talked about his fantasy football league. We paid the bill and drove home in silence.
I cried in the bathroom. Thought about giving up.
But my sister said the first one is always garbage. You're peeling off scar tissue. It's supposed to hurt.
The Fourth 7 Days
Something shifted around week four. We went bowling. I don't even like bowling. But we were terrible at it together, and we laughed actually laughed when he threw a gutter ball and did this dramatic collapse thing. People stared. We didn't care.
In the car after, he reached over and held my hand. First time in... I don't even know. I didn't say anything. Didn't want to ruin it.
The First 7 Weeks
We booked a cabin. Nothing fancy. $89 a night, hot tub that smelled vaguely of chlorine and regret. But we were somewhere else. No laundry pile giving me anxiety. No his gaming setup glowing in the corner of the living room.
We talked until 2am. About his dad, who died when he was nineteen. About how I still feel like I'm faking being an adult. The stuff you forget to mention when you're just managing a household together.
He fell asleep with his head on my shoulder. I didn't move for an hour. My arm went numb. I didn't care.
What Nobody Tells You
The 777 rules for couplesisn't about the numbers. I know, I know the articles make it sound so clean. So Pinterest-perfect. It's not.
Some weeks, your "date" is a 20-minute walk around the block because the babysitter cancelled and you're both exhausted. Some months, the "getaway" is turning your phones off and camping in the backyard because the car broke down.
The number seven is arbitrary. My sister does a "555 rule" because her husband travels for work. A friend of mine does "101010" because she likes symmetry. The math doesn't matter. The rhythm does.
It's about building a structure that forces you to look up from your life and remember there's a person sitting right there who chose you. Who's still choosing you, even when you're both boring and stressed and slightly disappointing.
The Real Magic
I'm writing this on our seventh month. We're leaving for the coast tomorrow. I packed the good lingerie the stuff that's been in the back of the drawer since 2019.
But here's what I actually want to tell you: last night, we were loading the dishwasher together. He was rinsing, I was loading. And he stopped, put down the plate, and kissed me. Not a peck. A real one. The kind that says I see you. I still want this.
I didn't know I needed that until I got it.
If You're Where I Was
Maybe you're reading this on your phone while he's watching TV three feet away. Maybe you're trying to remember the last time you felt like partners instead of co-managers of a very small, very boring business.
I'm not a coach. I'm not an expert. I'm just a woman who was drowning and found a rope.
The 777 rule saved my relationship not because it's magic, but because it made us stop assuming we had time. Stop assuming the other person knew. Stop assuming "later" would somehow be better than now.
If you're tired of feeling invisible in your own marriage, there's a tracker we started using. Nothing fancy, just a simple PDF that helps you actually stick to it when life gets messy. Because it will get messy.
That's the whole point. You need something to hold onto.
You can grab the 777 rules for couples PDF [here] if you want. Or don't. Make your own. Write it on a napkin. I don't care.
Just start. Before you look up and realize you've forgotten what his laugh sounds like.
What's your "roommate phase" story? Drop it below I'm reading every comment.