A bright square of yellow disrupted the matte black cabinet, clinging to the highest corner.

Everything you might need.

Aria tipped her chin upward, a sigh escaping before she could catch it. He had placed it high, well out of her reach, as if even his attempts at helpfulness were designed to remind her of the distance between them. She didn't pull it down. She left it there, untouched, just like the order he had etched into the rest of the kitchen.

Labeled jars. Stacked bottles. A curated precision that made her feel like a guest in her own life.

Turning to the counter, she forced her movements to be brisk. Rice. Lentils. Semolina. Simple tasks to drown out the memory of last night—the plate he'd left covered for her, the neat handwriting on the note she had hidden away. She didn't want to keep these things. Keeping them felt like hope, and hope felt dangerous.

By half-past seven, the halva simmered, golden and fragrant. She laid out bread, spread cottage cheese, and scattered greens. The knife sliced through the crust with a satisfying snick. Symmetry steadied her. Two plates. Two chairs. A balance she pretended didn't sting.

She sat, wrapping her hands around her tea. The apartment wasn't just quiet; it was expectant. It waited for him. No shoes by the door, no jacket thrown over a chair—only his things, his space, and her drifting through it like a ghost.

Footsteps scuffed against the floorboards.

Aria froze, the ceramic cup warming her palms. Reyhaan emerged from the hallway, navy sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking unfairly at ease. He turned toward the living room, then stopped. His eyes snagged on hers.

A jolt went through her, followed immediately by a heavier, sinking sensation. He was the first thing she saw in the morning; he would be the last thing she saw at night. The boundaries of her day now belonged to him.

Her chair scraped back, a harsh sound that shattered the morning calm. She stood, needing to move, to put distance between them before the air grew too thin.

"Don't." His voice stopped her. Low. Anchoring. "Finish your meal."

"I'm done." She didn't look at him, focusing instead on the sink as she carried her plate over. "There's... breakfast for you. On the table."

Water rushed over her hands, cold and distracting. She glanced sideways, unable to help herself.

He had taken the seat opposite hers. Had picked up the spoon, tasting the halva first.

Aria's fingers tightened on the sponge. You're supposed to start with the sandwich.

He set the spoon down. Reached for the bread. Took a single bite, then placed it back on the ceramic with a careful deliberation that felt like rejection.

Her stomach dropped. Yesterday, he had brought her exactly what she needed. Today, she was guessing and failing.

"You... didn't like it?" The question slipped out, small and humiliating.

His brow furrowed as he looked up. "Why would you think that?"

"The way you tasted it." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Like it wasn't what you wanted."

He looked at the plate, then back at her, his expression shifting into something softer, harder to read. "It reminded me of something. That's all. My mother used to make it on winter mornings." He paused, his gaze holding hers. "I like what you made."

The admission pressed against her ribs—warmth she had no place for. She nodded, turning back to the sink to hide the heat rising in her neck. She scrubbed a spotless plate, desperate to wash away the intimacy of the moment. They were married, yes, but the vows were made of silence and absence. He was protecting her; she was trying not to ruin his life. There was no room for halva and nostalgia in that equation.

"Aria."

She turned, drying her hands on a towel.

He hadn't moved. "Let me know when you're ready to leave. I'll drop you."

Protective. Familiar. The same tone he used when they were just friends, back when his care was a gift, not an obligation. She wanted to tell him she could take the tram, that he didn't have to ferry her around like a package he was responsible for. But the words died. It made her mourn the bond they had once shared, the ease that had been possible then.

"Okay," she whispered.

At her bedroom door, her fingers brushed the ring on her left hand. It felt cold.

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When Aria stepped into the hall, bag slung over her shoulder, Reyhaan was waiting. Leaning against the wall, arms folded, head bowed.

He straightened the moment he heard her.

She wore a beige pantsuit, the sharp tailoring a stark contrast to the soft, muted interior of his home. Their eyes locked—a collision of focus. He looked as if he were trying to memorize her, or perhaps just trying to figure out who she was now.

"Ready?" he asked.

She nodded.

They walked to the elevator in a silence that felt less like peace and more like a held breath. The steel doors slid shut, trapping them with their own reflections. Aria crossed her arms, creating a barrier. She saw him in the glass—the flex of his hand at his side, the way he shifted his weight to leave more space between them.

Care, disguised as distance.

The lobby air hit them—brisk, smelling of exhaust and damp concrete. Reyhaan walked a step ahead, leading the way to the car. He opened the passenger door for her, a gesture so automatic it made her chest ache.

Inside, the engine purred to life. The city unrolled past the window—shutters rising, cyclists weaving through traffic. The leather seat pressed cool beneath her palm.

Reyhaan didn't turn on the radio. His hands were steady on the wheel, but she saw his index finger tap against the steering—searching for a rhythm, then stopping.

Aria stared out at the blur of buildings. Before the wedding, these drives had been their sanctuary. A place to share music, to trade jokes, to sit in a companionable hush. Now, the silence felt hollowed out. Every mile was a reminder of how far they had drifted while sitting inches apart.

When he pulled up to the curb outside Vireo House, her hand went to the door handle immediately. Escape velocity.

"I'll come pick you up. Usual time," he said.

She paused. His voice was low, devoid of command, offering only availability.

It should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like a debt she was accruing. He was doing this because he had to. Because he was good. And if he was good, that made her the burden he was too polite to drop.

She gave a nod and pushed the door open.

She stepped out into the wind, not looking back. The car idled for a second longer—a hesitation she felt in her spine—before pulling away into the traffic.

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The glass doors of Vireo House parted, exhaling a gust of processed air—coffee, toner, and stress.

Aria stepped inside, bracing herself. The phantom hum of Reyhaan's engine still vibrated in her hands, a ghost sensation she couldn't shake. Here, the noise was jagged. Keyboards clattered like hail; phones rang in discordant bursts.

As she walked past the reception, the atmosphere shifted. It wasn't a sound, but a temperature change. Heads turned. Eyes tracked her.

That's her. Reyhaan's wife. The blurred girl.

The whispers weren't audible, but they hung in the fluorescent air, sticky and suffocating. She straightened her spine, smoothing the fabric of her jacket. Armor up.

"Well, look who finally shows up. Mrs. Mysterious in the flesh."

Chiara spun in her chair, a grin sharpening her features.

Aria forced a smile, pinning it into place. "Hi, Chiara."

"Any reason we weren't invited to the fairytale?" Chiara asked, eyebrows arching.

"Yeah, don't tell me there wasn't cake," Jasper chimed in from his desk, spinning a pen. His eyes flicked to the ring on her finger—a quick, hungry glance—before snapping back to her face.

"It was... sudden," Aria said, her voice sounding thin to her own ears. "No time for invites."

"Sudden, but the whole city knows," Dev said quietly from behind his monitor.

The words landed like stones. She could be sitting right here. Jasper's old joke from the lunchroom echoed in her memory. The sandwich halfway to her mouth. The panic. Now, the panic was a cold reality she had to wear like a second skin.

"Guess I wasn't too far off, huh?" Jasper chuckled, tapping his pen.

Heat prickled her collar.

"That's not funny, Jas," Chiara said, turning back to her screen.

Aria moved to her desk, sinking into the chair. She reached for the script Lina had left—margins, notes, dialogue tags. Safe things. Controllable things. She focused on the black ink, letting the lines anchor her. She wasn't the girl in the tabloids. She was an editor. She was real.

"Well," she said, her pencil hovering over the page, "news travels faster than cake."

The group laughed, the tension breaking. But Aria's smile didn't reach her eyes. She stared at the paper, letting the work bury her, hiding in the only place the noise couldn't reach.

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Lunch was a cacophony of cutlery and gossip. The smell of reheated curry and burnt coffee hung heavy in the cafeteria.

Aria sat at the far end of the table, stirring a salad she had no intention of eating.

"You know," Chiara said, leaning over her tray, "first the tabloids tore him apart... then overnight it's like—'oh, newlyweds, so sweet!' It's whiplash."

Aria kept her eyes on the lettuce. "That's media."

"Build you up, knock you down," Jasper agreed, sprawling in his chair.

Dev looked at her, his gaze thoughtful. "You okay with it? The noise?"

Aria hesitated. The plastic fork scraped against the bowl. "It's strange. Being inside the story instead of editing it. But people move on."

"Still," Chiara grinned, mischievous. "Married to Reyhaan. You know how many people hate you in secret right now?"

Laughter rippled through the group. Aria's lips curved up mechanically, but the knot in her stomach tightened. They think it's a prize. They don't know it's a rescue mission.

She took a sip of water, the cold liquid doing nothing to cool the flush of exposure.

Usual time.

Reyhaan's voice looped in her head. She checked her watch. Three hours to go. She touched the ring with her thumb, spinning it once. A nervous tic she was beginning to hate.

She just had to get through the afternoon. Keep the mask on. Pretend that the car waiting at the curb wasn't a getaway vehicle, but just a ride home.

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Reyhaan leaned against the hood of his car, hands buried in his pockets. The metal was cool against his back, grounding him against the restless energy of the street.

The day stuck to him in fragments—studio static, the endless loops of a track that wouldn't resolve, the shadows he kept checking in the rearview mirror. He should have felt accomplished; the anniversary album was done. Instead, he felt drained out.

He watched the doors of Vireo House. He knew the schedule. He knew when she would walk out.

The anonymous reporter—the one who had started this fire—was still a ghost. His team had chased a name and lost it. It shouldn't matter anymore. The damage was done. But the absence of a face to blame made the anger sit heavier in his gut.

People streamed out of the building. He ignored the stares, the phones raised halfway. To them, he was a celebrity sighting. To himself, he was just a man waiting for his wife who might not want to see him.

Then, he saw her.

Aria emerged from the crowd, surrounded by colleagues but somehow apart from them. She looked tired. Not the physical kind, but the deep, bone-weary exhaustion of someone holding up a heavy shield.

She spotted him. Her step hitched.

Recognition—sharp and immediate. Their eyes locked across the pavement. In that split second, he saw a plea in her gaze.

He pushed off the car, straightening.

"Hi." Her voice was bright, brittle. A performance for her audience.

His mouth lifted in a tease. "Hi? That's all I get?" He glanced at the colleagues trailing behind her. "Ah. Audience."

Laughter from her group. Aria introduced them, her movements stiff. Reyhaan shook hands, smiled, and played the part of the charming husband.

"You know," Chiara said, "hated the article. But you two... exactly how I pictured."

Reyhaan's hand found the small of Aria's back. He felt the tension in her spine—wire-tight. "The noise doesn't matter," he said. "Only where we stand."

"Just like I pictured you," Chiara beamed. "Warm. Easy to talk to."

Reyhaan looked down at Aria. He wanted to shake the mask off her, to see the girl who used to laugh at his bad jokes. "What do you think, Aria? Am I really like that?"

She looked up. For a second, the office, the street, the charade—it all fell away.

"I think..." she said, her voice dropping to a register that felt real. "You've always been thoughtful. Quietly present. Someone who understands silences."

The words struck him. Thoughtful. Present. It sounded like an elegy for the friendship they had lost.

Her colleagues traded knowing looks—that universal, half-smirking shorthand for giving newlyweds their space—before they waved goodbye, leaving them alone on the curb. The moment the audience vanished, Aria stepped away. A physical retreat.

Reyhaan opened the passenger door. She slid in, closing herself off.

As the car hummed to life, Aria angled toward the window, twisting the ring on her finger. Round and round. An anchor. Or a shackle.

Reyhaan gripped the wheel, knuckles whitening, before he forced them to relax. Her words replayed in his mind.

Someone who understands silences.

She was right. He understood this silence perfectly. It was the sound of two people who had saved each other from the world, only to become strangers to one another.

The city spilled around them—bright signs, blurred headlights. From the outside, a tableau of love. Inside, silence stretched thin—weighted with everything lost, fragile with the hope that silence was still a language they could share.