After the World Exhaled
Ayah's Pov
I didn't realize I was shaking until the balcony door closed behind me.
The hallway was empty, the lights dimmed low, the air too still. I took a step forward, then another—and then my legs gave out. I pressed my palm against the wall, breath coming unevenly, like I had forgotten how to do something as simple as exist.
I shouldn't have gone with him.
I knew that. I knew it the moment he asked.
But I had wanted to hear it.
I had wanted to hear him say my name the way he always did—carefully, as it mattered.
The cold still clung to me, but it wasn't the night air that hurt. It was the warmth I had stepped away from. The place where my forehead had rested against his chest. The way my hands had curled into his coat without permission, without thought.
I love you.
The words replayed relentlessly, echoing in my chest like they had found a home there.
I had almost said it back.
That was the part that undid me.
I stood against the balcony door, hugging my arms to myself as if I could hold everything in. My breath stuttered, once, twice—then broke entirely. The first sob escaped before I could stop it, sharp and humiliating, tearing its way out of me.
"I almost…" I whispered, my voice cracking. "I almost did."
My hands trembled as I pressed them to my face. I could still feel him. Still smell him. Still hear the steadiness in his voice when he confessed—as if loving me was the easiest truth he had ever spoken. I wanted to go back inside.
God, it would have been so easy to stay.
So easy to lean in. To say the words. To pretend that love alone could protect us from what I carried.
Another sob tore through me, deeper this time. I folded forward, shoulders shaking, tears spilling freely now—hot, relentless, impossible to stop.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, over and over again. To him. To myself. To the version of me that wanted to choose happiness just once.
My chest ached, heavy and tight, like something vital had been lodged there and refused to move. I pressed my fist against it, trying to breathe through the pain, through the memory of his eyes when I pulled away—hurt, confused, still gentle.
That was the worst part.
He hadn't been angry.
He hadn't pushed.
He had let me go.
The realization broke something open in me.
I covered my mouth to muffle the sound, tears soaking into my gloves, my vision blurring completely. The stars he had shown me felt impossibly far away now. Like something I had glimpsed in another life.
"I love you," I whispered into the silence, the words finally allowed to exist—too late, useless, devastating.
They echoed back to me, unanswered.
When I finally stood, wiping my face with shaking hands, I felt hollowed out. Lighter and heavier all at once. Like I had survived something I wasn't meant to.
I walked away slowly, every step an act of restraint.
Behind me, on that balcony, Aubrey was still standing where I had left him.
And I knew—deep down, painfully—that walking away from him would haunt me far longer than staying ever could.
I didn't remember the ride home.
The city passed me in fragments—lights, snow, motion—but none of it stayed. My body moved on instinct, keys in hand, door opening, closing, locking behind me. The apartment was dark and silent, too still, like it was waiting for me to fall apart.
I didn't even take my coat off.
I went straight to the balcony.
The cold rushed to meet me as I pushed the door open, sharp and unforgiving, but I welcomed it. I stepped outside, gripping the railing as my breath fogged the air—and then I looked up.
The stars were still there.
The same ones he had shown me. The same quiet sky, unchanged, indifferent to the way my chest caved in at the sight of them.
My knees buckled.
I sank to the floor, back against the glass, pulling my coat tighter around myself as if it could hold me together. The sob that escaped me was broken, torn from somewhere too deep to control.
"I love you," I whispered into the night.
The words spilled out before I could stop them. Once. Then again.
"I love you. I love you. I love you."
Each time it hurt more, like pressing on a bruise that refused to heal. My hands shook as I covered my mouth, but the sound still broke through—raw, uneven, uncontrollable.
"I love you," I cried, the words dissolving into tears. "I love you—I do—I do—"
My forehead dropped to my knees as I folded in on myself, sobbing openly now. My shoulders shook violently, breath coming in shattered pieces as I rocked forward, repeating it like a confession no one could hear.
"I love you," I said again, quieter this time, broken. "I love you."
The stars blurred as tears streamed down my face, the cold biting into my skin, grounding me in a pain that felt deserved. I pressed my palm to my chest, as if I could force the feeling back down, as if loving him less would somehow make this easier.
It didn't.
It only made it heavier.
"I'm sorry," I whispered into the night, my voice hoarse, exhausted. "I'm so sorry."
The wind carried my words away. The stars didn't answer.
I stayed there for a long time, crying until my body ached, until my throat burned, until the words lost their sound and became only feeling—deep, unrelenting, impossible to undo.
Somewhere across the city, he was still standing beneath the same sky.
And I loved him.
I loved him enough to walk away.
And that was the cruellest thing of all.
The realization hollowed me out. How was I supposed to tell him that everything he saw was a disguise? That the woman he loved was only a carefully constructed version of the truth? That my name, my history, my softness had all been borrowed?
How could I look him in the eye and tell him I wasn't who I claimed to be?
Would he still love me if he knew? Would he still reach for my hand and walk beside me—unafraid, unwavering—if he learned that he was one of the main suspects in my investigation? That every moment between us had been shadowed by duty, by suspicion?
Or would I become someone he couldn't even look at?
Would he deny me even the right to glance at him the way I do now—quietly, reverently, from a distance?
The questions circled relentlessly, each one sharper than the last. And buried beneath them all was the truth I was most afraid to face:
That loving him was the one thing I couldn't afford—and the one thing I had done anyway.
I didn't even realize when I fell for him. He was simply there—existing—and somehow, without my consent, without my conscience catching up, my heart had already chosen him. It belonged to him before I understood what it meant.
And even if he accepted me as I am… then what?
I still couldn't love him the way he deserved—not without betraying my faith. The truth lodged itself in my chest, cruel and immovable. I choked between my tears, breath breaking apart as the weight of it crushed me. For the first time since Mum's death, I felt completely exposed—raw, unguarded, unbearable.
I wanted to tear my heart out of my chest, just to stop it from wanting what it was never allowed to have.
My phone rang.
Claire.
I stared at the screen, my vision blurring until her name looked unfamiliar. My thumb hovered before I finally answered, pressing the phone to my ear as I tried—failed—to steady my breathing.
"Hey, Ayah!" Claire said, bright and warm. "How did the event go? Are you still there?"
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
"Ayah?" she called again, softer this time.
Silence stretched between us. I could hear her breathing. I could hear mine—broken, uneven, betraying me.
"Ayah," she said slowly. "Are you okay? I hear… are you crying?"
That was it. The restraint shattered.
"Claire," I sobbed, my voice collapsing in on itself, "he confessed to me. He told me he loved me. And I—I turned him down."
Her inhale was sharp, controlled. She didn't rush me.
"Oh, love," she said quietly. "Come here. I'm listening."
I pressed my free hand against my mouth, trying to contain the sound of myself breaking. "I didn't want to," I cried. "I didn't want to say no. I swear to you, I didn't."
There was a pause—not empty, but deliberate.
"…Do you like him, Ayah?" she asked gently.
The answer tore out of me. "Yes," I whispered. "I love him."
Claire went silent.
Not shocked. Not judgmental. Just present.
"But he's one of the suspects," she said finally. "Right?"
"Yes." The word tasted like betrayal. "Yes, he is."
I heard her sigh then—long, heavy, conflicted. "Ayah… I'm going to be honest with you."
I curled into myself, bracing.
"I don't think a man like him is capable of being the mastermind behind this," she said slowly. "I've watched you talk about him. I've seen the way he treats you. That doesn't feel like manipulation—it feels like sincerity."
"I know," I cried, my voice cracking wide open. "I know that. And that's what makes this unbearable." I sucked in a broken breath. "But I'm not allowed to trust my heart in this. Not when people's lives are involved. Not when I could be wrong."
Claire didn't argue.
She let me fall apart.
"He asked me to give him time," I whispered, the words trembling. "Three weeks. Just three. He said if, after that, I still couldn't love him, he'd walk away. Forever." I let out a hollow, broken laugh. "As if that would make it easier."
Claire said my name softly. "Ayah…"
"That fool," I cried, my voice splintering completely now, "doesn't know that I already do. He thinks I'm unsure—but I'm not. I'm terrified."
My chest tightened until I thought it might cave in. "I love him, Claire. I love him so much that I let him go. Do you know how cruel that is?"
"I know," she said, her voice thick now. "I know."
"I don't get to choose happiness," I whispered. "Not like this. Not with lies between us. Not with my faith pulling me one way and my heart tearing me the other."
The line stayed quiet—Claire breathing with me, grounding me, staying.
"You did the hardest thing," she said finally. "Not the wrong thing. The hardest."
I closed my eyes, tears spilling freely. "Why does it hurt as I've lost him," I asked, broken, "when I never even had him?"
Claire didn't answer right away.
"Because," she said softly, "sometimes the almosts hurt more than the endings."
I cried then—not quietly, not politely. I cried like someone who had chosen duty over desire and paid for it in pieces of herself.
And Claire stayed on the line the entire time.
"Ayah," Claire said suddenly, her voice careful but resolute, "why don't you accept his three-week condition?"
The words startled me. I pulled the phone closer, my chest tightening. "What?"
"I've been thinking," she continued, slower now, choosing each word. "You love him. And in those three weeks—if he is a suspect, you'll find out more about him. You'll see things you haven't yet." She paused. "And if he isn't… then you get to spend time with him. Honestly. Without wondering what if for the rest of your life."
My throat closed. "That would be cruel," I whispered. "To him."
"Cruel how?" she asked gently, not challenging—inviting.
"To let him hope," I said, my voice breaking. "To let him believe there's a chance when I already know how dangerous this is. I'd be lying to him every single day."
Claire sighed softly. "You're already lying, Ayah. Just not in the way you think."
I swallowed hard.
"You're lying to yourself," she went on. "By pretending walking away is the kinder choice when it's tearing you apart."
Silence settled between us, heavy and aching.
"Yeah," she added quietly, "maybe it is selfish. But think about it—there's nothing shameful about being a little selfish when all you've done is put everyone else first." Her voice softened. "Three weeks won't damn you. But denying yourself the truth might."
I closed my eyes, tears slipping down my temples. "What if I fall even harder?"
"You already have," Claire said gently.
The truth of it hit me all at once—sharp and undeniable.
"And what if he's innocent?" she continued. "What if you walk away now and never forgive yourself for it?"
My hand trembled against my chest. "And what if he isn't?" I whispered. "What if loving him costs me everything I stand for?"
Claire didn't answer immediately.
"Then," she said softly, "you'll walk away knowing you didn't choose fear. You chose truth."
The word echoed in my mind.
Truth.
Three weeks.
I didn't say yes.
But for the first time since leaving that balcony, I didn't say no either.