The house has stopped telling time. Only the small table lamp near Kai's bed throws a thin circle of gold, and inside that circle lies the world he refuses to leave. Alina, still breathing softly, her skin too pale against the dark pillowcase.
For four days, she hasn't moved. For four days, Kai has forgotten that outside this house, life still demands him. He should be on set. He should be giving interviews, smiling for cameras, playing the version of himself the world adores. But the man they want is here, his hair unwashed, eyes rimmed red, a blanket around his shoulders, and a damp cloth slipping from his fingers.
Sometimes the doctor's footsteps echo down the hallway; sometimes the clock ticks loud enough to sound like guilt, and Everything else is silence. Every day, Granny comes in and brings something for Kai to eat, but he never touches any food.
Kai doesn't even remember when he last ate. Granny leaves bowls of soup in his room, and sometimes comes in to check Alina's situation. But Granny's words never reach him. He just nods, thanks her, and goes back to watching Alina's lashes tremble with each weak breath.
Ryan hasn't seen Kai come to the company for four days. That silence itself is mercy.
He knows what Kai has become when Alina is in the picture, every thought collapsing toward her like gravity. So Ryan shoulders everything outside: appointments, press, the film board, the agents calling every hour.
He doesn't even tell Kai when a producer yells over the phone; he only sends a brief text Handled. And Kai doesn't reply to him, he just silently sees and keeps the phone on the study table.
Sometimes Kai calls him first, voice hoarse, just to say, "Postpone the press meet."
Or, "Send the contract to your email. I'll sign it later."
A long pause; the sound of Kai's shallow breath filled the line.
"Good," he whispered finally, eyes still fixed on the fragile rise and fall of Alina's chest.
In Midnight. The floor creaks. The smell of medicine lingers. When Ryan finally does visit, he brings a stack of folders clutched to his chest and a tired smile that never quite reaches his eyes.
He finds Kai on the couch, bent over the table, reading through half-blurred pages of a script. The lamp casts sharp shadows across his face.
Ryan sets the files down softly. "You shouldn't tire yourself more."
Kai doesn't look up. "I can't sleep."
Ryan sits across from him. "You need to."
The silence that follows is heavy, almost kind. Ryan starts opening folders, pushing papers forward for signatures. Kai signs them all while discussing. His handwriting has turned uneven, like his breathing.
"Everything outside's fine," Ryan says finally. "No one's asking questions anymore. I've told the studio you're… dealing with something personal."
Kai nodded his head while reading the file
Ryan shakes his head. "You have eaten something?"
Kai doesn't answer. He glances toward the closed bedroom door instead.
Ryan follows his gaze; the lamplight seeping under the crack glows faintly. "Her health is still not stable."
Kai's eyes were still on the paper file while he nodded his head
His glare swept across the living room before snagging on a solitary object: a bowl of untouched soup on the dining table. "There is a bowl," he stated, his voice laced with an implied question. "I guess you haven't eaten yet, and haven't even touched it."
''Shall I heat it for you?'' Ryan asked
"Later."
"But.."
"Ryan." His voice breaks slightly.
Ryan exhales, defeated. "Alright."
He picks up the untouched mug from the table, sets it aside. Then he says, gently, "That house… It's safe. He can never sell it. No one can even make an offer now. I've spoken to everyone."
Kai's fingers curl around the edge of the table. "Make sure he never can. Ever."
"Already done," Ryan said. "Everything's been taken care of. No one can touch it now."
For the first time that night, Kai leans back, closing his eyes. A small tremor passes through his hands; he presses his thumb against his temple. The air smells of rain beginning outside, wet earth, cold wind through old windows.
Ryan wants to say something kind, but what comfort is there for a man who hasn't allowed himself to feel hunger or rest for four days? So he gathers the files quietly.
As he stands, he says, almost to himself, "You know, everyone misses you."
Kai opens his eyes, tired, distant. "Let it."
Ryan nods once, turns toward the door. Before leaving, he glances back: Kai is still sitting there, eyes fixed on that closed door, as though sheer will could wake her.
The night stretches until even the rain falls asleep. Kai checks her again, adjusts the drip, and brushes a strand of hair from her forehead. The skin under his fingers is cool; he whispers her name as though it could anchor her back.
He sits again, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. His mind drifts to the diary, to the words he shouldn't have read, to the ache they left inside him. He tells himself he'll stop opening it, but when the silence grows too loud, he reaches for it again.
Rain drifts across the window like thin threads of glass. The lamp on the bedside table hums softly, haloing the room in amber. Every few minutes, the clock ticks slowly, deliberately, heavily.
Kai sits where he always does, at the edge of the bed. His hands rest loosely on his knees; his gaze never leaves her face. Alina's breathing is shallow, a rhythm so fragile it frightens him. He counts each rise of her chest like it's a promise she hasn't broken yet.
The medicine bottle on the tray is half-empty. He reaches for it, refills the dropper, and lifts her head carefully. Even in unconsciousness, she looks too light, as if the world has already begun to let her go.
Behind him, the house sighs. A floorboard creaks, and the wind slides under the door. He's forgotten what time feels like, what hunger feels like. The only thing real is this: the warmth of her skin under his fingers and the steady pulse beneath.
The clock says 3:48 a.m. when he finally stands. His knees ache. He crosses to the window, draws the curtain back a little. Outside, the streetlights are blurred by rain. The world looks distant, almost unreal.
The phone on the table lights up once Ryan's name appears and goes dark again. Kai closes his eyes. He thinks he's imagining it. Then it rings again, sharp, cutting through the hush. The phone keeps ringing. Its light flickers across the room, one flash, then another spilling over the floorboards.
Kai hesitates. His pulse stumbles. He glances back at Alina; she doesn't move. The steady rise and fall of her chest is the only rhythm left in the house.
He answers on the fourth ring. "Ryan?"
The rain outside answers first with a soft, endless drumming against the roof. Then Ryan's voice comes, low and rough, carrying the sound of city static behind it. "Listen, I'm sorry. I know it's late."
Kai's voice is barely there. "It's fine."
On the other end, Ryan's breath was uneven, the background filled with faint noises, maybe papers shuffling, footsteps, the hum of a distant engine.
"Kai…" Ryan's voice carried something that froze him in place: a mix of urgency, disbelief, and hesitation. "We have a situation."
Kai straightened instantly, his shoulders tensing. The exhaustion in his face disappeared, replaced by alertness, sharp, cold, scared.
"What happened?" he asked, his tone breaking through the fog of grief. There was a pause, heavy and loaded.
"I'll explain to you when you get here," Ryan said, almost in a whisper. "It's… serious."
The line went silent. Kai lowered the phone slowly, his fingers tightening around it. The room suddenly felt smaller. His eyes flicked once toward Alina, still motionless, then back to the phone.
Something inside him twisted a quiet, terrible premonition. The rain outside grew louder again, as if the night itself knew something was coming. Kai didn't move. He just sat there, staring at the screen long after the call ended, the reflection of his own shocked face staring back at him pale, tired, afraid.
And then, with a whisper barely audible to himself, he said: "…at this hour?"
The clock struck 4:07 A.M. The house stayed silent.