The official began to speak. Words about love, about commitment, about forever. They sounded like a language she didn't speak.

I am doing this for them, she told herself. I am doing this to survive.

But when she looked at his profile—the sharp jaw, the tension in his neck—she knew that wasn't the whole truth.

She was doing this because she couldn't imagine leaving him to face the storm alone.

When it was time, Reyhaan stepped closer.

He lifted the ring. His hand didn't waver, though she tracked the slight tremor in his fingers before he tightened his grip again. Warmth seared through the cool metal as he slid the band onto her finger. His thumb brushed hers—barely a graze, yet it felt like a burn.

He feels it too, she realized. The pain. The trust.

Her turn.

She opened the box. The band was simple. Platinum. Unbreaking.

She lifted it.

Time seemed to drag, thick and viscous. He caught her eye and didn't look away. In his gaze, she saw the apology he hadn't been able to finish. She saw the fear. And she saw the plea.

This was her promise, hidden beneath the lights and the watching eyes. She slid the ring onto his finger, the metal settling with a sense of permanence.

I will stand beside him, she vowed silently. Through the storms. Through the hurt. I can't hate him—I never could.

The room erupted in applause. Cameras flashed.

But inside the circle of their hands, it was quiet.

And for a moment, the transaction felt like a promise.

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The drive passed in a smear of neon and rain-slicked streets. Aria kept her eyes fixed on the window, staring out at the city, twisting the new ring on her finger. Round and round. Like she was trying to unscrew it.

The engine's hum was a relentless drone, grinding against the quiet in the car. Neither of them spoke. There was no space for words in the airless gap between them.

Reyhaan pulled into the garage, the click of the unlocking doors sounded like a gunfire. She jolted. She wanted the door to stay sealed, to keep her nowhere at all.

"We're here," he said.

Cold air rushed over her as she stepped out. The bite was almost a relief.

He circled to the trunk, lifting her trolley with an efficiency that felt impersonal. She took the handle from him; their fingers brushed—too sharp, too brief—and the ache of it lingered long after he pulled away.

They stepped into the elevator, the mirrored walls throwing their reflections back at them—two strangers dressed for a ceremony that had already ended. Reyhaan stood with one hand on the railing, staring forward. She could smell the trace of his cologne—cool, understated—and hear the rasp of fabric as he shifted his weight.

We are bound, she thought, watching the floor numbers tick upward. And yet we have never been further apart.

A corridor stretched ahead, lamps evenly spaced, shadows breathing between each pool of light. The apartment door clicked open.

Inside, the air was cooler, carrying the faint trace of coffee. The shoe rack lined the wall with military precision; jackets hung with exact spacing. It was a space arranged for defense, not comfort.

She stood at the threshold of the hallway, feeling like an intruder in a museum. "Where's my room?"

Reyhaan gestured to the left. "That one."

She wheeled the trolley across the marble in silence. With a practiced touch, her fingers hooked into the door's recessed groove, sliding it open in one fluid motion. Darkness greeted her until she hit the switch. A muted amber glow revealed the space: a low bed with a beige headboard, pendant lamps, and heavy drapes blocking the street.

It was beautiful.

It was thoughtful.

And it hollowed her out completely.

Every detail spoke of his meticulous care—the caramel throw, the empty hangers waiting in the wardrobe. He had carved a space for her, prepared for her. But instead of warmth, the perfection felt like a reminder of the duty he had fulfilled.

A soft knock rapped against the frame.

"Do you need anything?" His voice was low, muffled by the frosted glass.

Aria gripped the handle of her trolley. "No... nothing."

She saw him linger—a shadow hesitating on the other side of the glass. Then, the slide of a drawer in the living room. He was still there, threaded through the apartment like a current she couldn't disconnect from.

She crossed to the wardrobe and began to unpack. One dress. Then another. Sliding the hangers onto the rail felt heavy, as if each garment were an acceptance of a life she hadn't consented to.

When the last dress was hung, she sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress yielded, too pristine. Beyond the drapes, a car engine faded into the distance.

This is my life now, she thought, curling her hand into a fist against the sheet. A tether knotted too tight to loosen.

She lay back, staring at the ceiling until the lines blurred. The silence of the room sealed her in, suffocating and absolute, as if the air itself had learned to own her.

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Reyhaan stood outside her door, his hand hovering inches from the laminated glass.

She hadn't come out. Not once.

The thought pressed into him, a dull ache behind his ribs. He imagined her in there—sitting on the edge of the bed, or maybe pacing—and the distance between them felt wider than the hallway.

He exhaled, the sound loud in the quiet flat. He knocked, soft but deliberate.

"Aria," he said, voice pitching low. "You should have dinner."

A rustle inside. Then her voice, brittle and muffled. "I'm not hungry."

He closed his eyes. He could hear the exhaustion in her tone—a weariness that went deeper than the day's events.

"Even if you're upset with me," he said, leaning his forehead briefly against the frame, "you should still eat."

No answer. Only the barrier of the door.

He pushed away from the wall, the rejection stinging. I can't reach her. Not like this.

He walked to the kitchen. His movements were mechanical. Rice. Water. Lentils. Spices. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables was the only sound he allowed himself. He cooked because he couldn't speak. He cooked because it was the only way he knew how to say, I will take care of you, even if you won't look at me.

When the food was ready, he plated it and covered hers with a dome.

He ate his own portion quickly, tasting nothing. Across from him, her empty spot felt like an accusation.

As he washed the dishes, water running over his hands, his eyes landed on the lyrics journal. A pen lay splayed across a page where he'd scratched words earlier in the week: Promise, protect, hold.

The vow he'd made when he slid the ring onto her finger rose up—unspoken, but binding. I'll protect her. Always.

He dried his hands and opened the drawer. A pad of sticky notes sat there.

He grabbed the pen.

Dinner.

He stuck it to the food cover.

Studio. Storage.

Then, on the kitchen cabinet: Everything you might need.

Simple words. Breadcrumbs. A way to speak without forcing her to listen.

He dimmed the lights until the apartment was washed in a faint, amber dusk. If she thought he was asleep, maybe she would venture out. Maybe she would breathe.

He retreated to his room but didn't sleep. He sat at his desk, pen tapping against his journal, listening.

The clock ticked.

The street outside quieted.

At 1:15 AM, he jolted from a light doze. Guilt coiled tighter around him than the ache in his neck—he hadn't heard her.

He slid his door open and padded down the hall, drawn to check the quiet of the apartment. At the corner of the partition, he stopped.

There she was.

Aria sat at the dining table, back to him, wrapped in a loose blue-and-grey checkered shirt that looked painfully familiar. She was eating—slowly, methodically—as if rationing the food.

Reyhaan watched from the shadows, his chest tight.

Finally.

When she finished, she washed her plate with quiet, small motions. The clink of porcelain against steel rang fragile in the cavernous room. Then, she began to wander.

He watched as she found the sticky notes. Her fingers plucked them one by one, reading them, collecting them in her hand like they were something precious. Proof she hadn't vanished here.

He didn't step out. He didn't speak.

I'll wait, he thought, watching her shadow move through the home that was now theirs. Hands empty, heart full. It's the only way I know how to love her now.