ZAYAN — POV
Trauma doesn't always scream.
Sometimes it just knocks you out cold and leaves you sleeping where you fell.
She's out.
Curled slightly on my bed like her body finally gave up the fight it's been running for years. Face flushed. Eyelashes stuck together. Tear tracks dried messy against her temples.
She looks wrecked.
Not the dramatic kind.
The real kind.
The kind that doesn't ask for attention because it never learned how.
My hand is still holding hers.
I don't remember deciding to keep it there. It just… stayed. Like letting go would wake her. Like my fingers figured something out my brain didn't.
Fuck.
I want to pull her into my chest so bad it actually hurts. Not the soft ache. The sharp one. The one that crawls under your ribs and stays there.
But I don't.
Because I know better.
Because right now, that would feel like stealing something she didn't offer. Because comfort you didn't earn feels like a trap when you grew up starving.
So I stay still.
Barely breathing.
Just watching.
Her mouth is slightly open. Breath uneven. Not peaceful—just exhausted. Like she ran from something invisible and collapsed where no one could see.
God.
She carried all of that inside her.
All that silence.
All that hunger.
All that pretending.
And still walked into rooms like she owned the floor.
Still laughed first.
Still fought back.
Still stood her ground like nothing ever touched her.
That's not strength.
That's survival sharpened into a weapon.
And I sit here realizing something ugly and unavoidable—
I will never fully understand her pain.
I can see it.
I can hear it.
I can respect the hell out of it.
But I didn't grow up like that.
I grew up drowning in love.
Too much of it, sometimes.
Parents who hover.
Who argue over who gets to worry about me.
Who still treat me like I'm six and scraped my knee instead of a grown man who's buried bodies and made decisions that ruin lives.
I never had to wonder if I mattered.
I never had to earn affection by being useful or funny or quiet.
And she did.
Every damn day.
My jaw tightens.
Because then the guilt slides in. Heavy. Mean.
I married her.
Dragged her into my world.
Into my name.
Into my house.
Selfish.
Calculated.
Controlled.
I tell myself it was to protect her.
And maybe part of it was.
But there's no way around the truth—
I wanted her.
And I didn't give her a choice that was clean.
If she ever finds out how long I watched her…
How carefully I moved pieces around her life…
How I nudged things just enough to make this inevitable—
Fuck.
How do I look at her after that?
How do I watch her trust me again?
I'm a bastard.
A fucking trash one.
And the worst part?
I know I'll break her.
Not on purpose.
Not with cruelty.
But with the truth.
That thought sits in my chest like a loaded gun.
I glance down at her hand again.
Small.
Warm.
Still holding mine even in sleep.
Like her body decided before her mind could stop it.
I swallow hard.
She reminds me of the hospital.[1]
That first time she went quiet.
Not angry.
Not sarcastic.
Gone.
The stupid drama playing on TV. Some soft scene. A grandmother brushing a kid's hair like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I remember watching her instead of the screen.
Her fingers digging into the blanket.
Her shoulders stiff like she's bracing for impact.
Eyes glued forward, not blinking.
And then that quiet—
"Can I… turn it off?"
Fuck.
Even then, she asked.
Like she didn't have the right to need.
When she pulled the blanket over her head, I knew.
I knew I fucked up.
Not by turning the TV on.
But by underestimating how deep that wound went.
I knew something was wrong between her and her grandmother.
I saw it.
The distance.
The formality.
The way they pass each other like strangers.
But this?
This wasn't cold.
This was absence.
And absence is louder than hate.
I look at her now and something in me settles into something solid and terrifying.
Tomorrow she'll pretend this never happened.
She'll wake up.
Act normal.
Avoid my eyes.
Avoid my presence.
Like she didn't bleed herself open in my bed.
Like she didn't trust me enough to let me see the rawest parts of her.
She'll convince herself she overshared.
That she was weak.
That I'll think less of her.
She always does this.
I know the pattern.
And I won't let her drown in it.
Not this time.
Even if one day she hates me.
Even if the truth ruins everything.
I'll give her the space she asks for.
But I'll still be there.
Every damn time.
I shift slightly, careful not to wake her, and brush my thumb once—just once—over the back of her hand.
Barely there.
A promise I don't say out loud.
She doesn't stir.
Still fighting ghosts in her sleep.
I sit there in the dark, guarding something fragile and ferocious at the same time.
And for the first time in a long time—
I don't feel powerful.
I feel responsible.
______________
Morning doesn't arrive gently.
It drops.
Cold light slicing through the glass. The house waking up in that quiet, expensive way that feels like it's judging you.
I come back from the gym still buzzing. Sweat-damp shirt. Jaw tight. Head loud.
I expect her to be right where I left her.
She isn't.
The bed is empty. Sheets disturbed on her side like she slept badly and escaped faster. Pillow pushed back. No warmth.
My chest does that stupid drop.
I check the bathroom.
Empty.
Closet.
Nothing moved.
Fuck.
I step into the hall and stop.
She's standing at the glass wall in the main hall. Barefoot. Hair loose, still messy from sleep.
Outside, the world is grey and sharp and distant. She's staring through it, not at it.
Not lost.
Gone.
I slow my steps without meaning to.
Then she senses me.
Not turning. Not flinching. Just… knowing.
And before I can reach her—
before I can say anything—
she walks away.
Clean.
Calm.
Like I'm not there.
Like last night didn't rip her open on my bed.
My jaw locks so hard it aches.
Breakfast is worse.
She sits across from me, posture straight, eyes glued to her plate like it's the most fascinating shit on earth. Fork moving too fast. Not tasting. Just fueling.
I talk to the staff.
She doesn't look up.
I move my chair slightly.
She shifts hers back a fraction.
Not dramatic.
Precise.
That's what pisses me off.
Not her.
Never her.
It's the why.
Trauma doesn't cry in the morning.
It cleans up.
It files itself down into politeness. Into speed. Into distance.
She finishes eating way too fast, pushes the plate away, stands.
She's gone before I can say anything.
Living room.
I enter. She's there by the window this time, phone in hand, pretending to scroll.
Pretending.
The second my foot crosses the threshold, she pockets it and walks out.
God—
No.
I clench my fists.
Not at her.
At the invisible shit that taught her this move.
Confess. Collapse. Retreat. Punish yourself.
I can hear her thoughts without hearing them.
Why did I say anything.
Why did I let him see that.
Now he knows.
Now I'm exposed.
Now I'm stupid.
She thinks vulnerability is a debt.
She thinks I'm keeping score.
I lean against the wall and breathe through my nose.
This is the aftershock.
The hangover.
The part no one talks about.
Everyone loves the big reveal. The tears. The breaking.
No one warns you about the next day.
The shame.
The self-disgust.
The urge to erase yourself from the room.
She's not avoiding me because she doesn't trust me.
She's avoiding herself.
And fuck—
I hate that I know this.
I hate that I can't fix it with words.
I hate that every instinct in me wants to grab her wrist and make her look at me and say, I'm not going anywhere.
But I don't.
Because that would be about me feeling better.
And this isn't.
So I let her pass me in the hallway without touching her. Let her move like a ghost who thinks she invented invisibility.
My teeth grind.
I don't feel powerful today.
I feel like I'm standing next to a live wire, knowing exactly how dangerous it is, and choosing not to touch it because someone else already got burned.
And I swear to myself, quietly, brutally—
Whatever taught her to disappear after telling the truth?
One day, I'm going to fucking bury it.
Evening drags its feet.
The house keeps pretending nothing's wrong. Lights warm. Air quiet. Staff moving soft like they're tiptoeing around a fault line.
She avoids me all day.
Not dramatic.
Not obvious.
Efficient.
Wrong hallway. Wrong timing. Wrong room every single time. Like she's memorized my orbit and learned how to step out of it.
I let it go.
Once.
Twice.
By the third, I'm done pretending this is fine.
I don't go looking.
I don't hunt.
I just… move.
Kitchen lights are on. Fridge open. Cold white spilling onto the floor.
She's there, bent slightly, staring into the fridge like the answer to her entire life is hiding behind the milk.
I walk in.
Her shoulders lock.
Freeze.
That sharp inhale she hates when I notice.
I take one step closer.
She steps back.
Again.
Her spine hits the counter. Soft thud. No drama.
She doesn't look at me.
"Move," she says.
Flat. Tight. Like it costs her something to speak.
I don't.
I plant my hands on the counter on either side of her. Not touching. Not trapping. Just… there.
The space tightens anyway.
"Look at me."
Nothing.
Her jaw clenches. Eyes glued to the cabinet behind my shoulder.
"Look at me, Arshila."
Still nothing.
I feel it then.
That ugly twist in my chest.
I lower my voice.
"Please."
That does it.
She looks.
And fuck—
Her eyes are sharp and tired and defensive like she walked into this already bleeding.
"Why are you avoiding me?" I ask.
"I'm not."
The lie is clean. Practiced.
"Oh?" I tilt my head. "Because from where I'm standing, you've been dodging me like I'm radioactive."
She laughs once. Short. Bitter.
"Relax. We're not that close anyway."
There it is.
The blade.
She's watching for the hit.
I don't give it to her.
"You want to talk," I say, calm, "or you want to keep pretending I'm stupid?"
Her shoulders rise. Fall.
She snaps.
"I don't want your pity."
The words come out fast. Angry. Loaded.
"There it is," I murmur. "That's what this is about?"
She scoffs. Looks away again.
"Don't do that thing where you act all understanding. I didn't ask for it."
"I'm not pitying you."
"Yes, you are."
"No," I say, firmer. "I'm fucking not."
She finally looks back, eyes flashing.
"Then what? Huh? You feel bad for me now? You look at me and think—poor her, she had it rough?"
"If that's what you think," I say quietly, "you're wrong."
She shakes her head hard.
"You don't know shit, Zayan. You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. Love, money, safety—don't act like you get it."
"I don't," I admit instantly. No hesitation. "I don't get it."
That stops her.
I lean in just enough that she feels my presence, not my weight.
"I don't know what it feels like to grow up like that. I don't know how sick it gets in your chest. I don't know how it rewires your head."
Her breath stutters.
"But don't confuse that with pity."
She swallows.
"I respect you," I say. Low. Steady. "I'm proud of you."
Her eyes widen.
Actually widen.
Like I slapped her.
"You don't get to say that," she whispers.
"I do," I say. "Because I mean it."
Her laugh comes out broken.
"I didn't need anyone. I survived on my own."
"I know," I say. "That's the problem."
She bristles.
"I don't need you standing with me."
"I know that too."
I shift back a fraction, giving her air.
"I'm not here because you need me," I say. "I'm here because I choose to be."
Her throat works.
"You think you can just say some pretty shit and make it better?"
"No," I answer. "I think saying nothing and letting you think you're disgusting for needing love is worse."
That lands.
Hard.
Her hands curl at her sides.
"I feel ugly about it," she snaps. "Happy now?"
"No," I say. "I'm pissed."
She blinks.
"At what?" she asks.
"At whatever taught you that wanting love makes you weak."
Silence crashes between us.
"You fought alone," I continue. "You did what you had to do. That doesn't make you small. That makes you dangerous."
Her eyes glisten. She hates it.
"I didn't say dangerous like broken," I add. "I said capable."
She shakes her head, breath uneven.
"I don't want to be seen like that."
"Too bad," I say softly. "I already see you."
She presses her lips together, fighting it.
"I'm not trying to fix you," I say. "I'm not trying to own your pain. I'm not here to babysit your past."
I step back fully now. Give her the counter back. The space.
"But don't run from me because you think I feel sorry for you," I finish. "I don't."
Her voice comes out small.
"Then what do you feel?"
I hold her gaze.
"Respect," I say. "And yeah—something close to admiration."
She stares at me like she doesn't recognize the room.
The house hums around us.
She exhales, shaky.
"You're exhausting," she mutters.
I almost smile.
"Good," I say. "Means you're still here."
She doesn't reply.
But she doesn't walk away either.
And tonight?
That's enough.
[1] From chapter 39