She didn't collapse dramatically.
There was no scream, no stumble.
She just… folded.
Like something inside her gave out quietly—without warning, without sound.
Alekos caught her before her knees touched the floor.
"Hey," he breathed, arms wrapping around her like instinct. "I've got you."
Her face was hidden in his chest, but he could feel the shudder of her sobs. Deep, shaking ones—the kind that weren't just about today, but about every moment that led up to it. Her fingers gripped his shirt with trembling desperation, like she was afraid that if she let go, she might disappear.
Without a word, he lifted her into his arms.
She didn't resist.
She buried her face into the crook of his neck, warm tears soaking his collar.
He carried her through the dim hallway, past the gallery of childhood photos, and into her bedroom—the one with soft beige sheets and linen curtains that swayed slightly in the breeze. Her perfume still lingered faintly in the air: jasmine, honey, something warm and deeply her.
He laid her down gently, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders.
"I'll get you some water," he murmured, brushing her hair back from her damp cheeks.
But before he could stand, her fingers found his wrist.
"Don't go," she whispered, voice hoarse.
He paused.
"Please," she said. "Just stay."
So he did.
He sat beside her on the bed, her body curling toward him like she couldn't bear the space between them. She rested her head against his chest, and slowly—her breathing began to even out.
Still shaking. Still broken.
But no longer alone.
Alekos held her in the silence. He gently ran his fingers through her hair—soft, deliberate, soothing strokes—watching her eyes flutter shut.
And as she drifted into sleep, his mind raced.
What happened to you?
What could've done this to you —my Selin— who never cried unless it was midnight and the world had completely broken her?
He looked around the room, quiet and dim.
Same walls.
Same curtains.
Same girl in his arms.
But everything was different.
When her breathing grew deep and steady, he finally eased her gently onto the pillow and pulled the blanket tighter around her. He lingered a moment longer—watching her sleep. Her lashes are still wet. Her brow still faintly furrowed.
Then he stood, careful not to make a sound, and left the room.
The villa was still as he walked down the hallway.
He knew exactly where to go.
The guest room wasn't really a guest room anymore. It hadn't been for years. It held one of his hoodies. His cologne in the drawer. A charger was already plugged in near the bed. Selin never said it out loud, but the space was his.
He stayed there whether she was home or not.
But tonight, something about the house felt unfamiliar.
The air was thicker.
The silence is heavier.
Like even the walls were holding their breath.
He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the door across the hallway—the one that led to her room.
And for the first time in a long time, Alekos Csepel didn't know how to fix something.
He only knew he had to stay.
Alekos couldn't sleep.
He'd laid down in the guest bed, stared at the ceiling, counted the minutes between the creaks of the villa's old bones. But nothing settled. His body was tired—his mind wasn't.
The guest room was too quiet.
Even for a house this large, this beautiful, this familiar—something about the silence felt off. It wasn't the kind that calmed you.
It was the kind that pressed on your chest.
Alekos sat on the edge of the bed, one foot on the cold tile floor, staring at nothing.
He'd checked on her again. For the fourth time. Quietly pushed the door open, peered in to see her lying still beneath the blankets, breath soft, eyelashes resting on skin still puffy from crying.
She hadn't moved.
He should've been relieved.
But he wasn't.
He needed air.
So he slipped on his hoodie, padded barefoot down the stairs, and opened the front door.
The villa's garden greeted him with damp stones and soft dew glistening on leaves. The sky was still dark, but not black—tinted with the earliest shades of gray and pale blue, like the world was just starting to wake.
He lit a cigarette with stiff fingers, leaned against the stone railing, and exhaled into the cold air.
His chest was heavy. Not in the way grief felt—not yet. It was a simmering, suffocating kind of helplessness.
He thought back to the way Selin had looked when she broke down in his arms: not like someone who was falling apart—but like someone who had already shattered quietly, piece by piece, and was just now admitting it.
He took one last drag, flicked the cigarette into the gravel, and stared up at the sky.
Still no peace.
His body was too still.
So he moved.
At 4:06 a.m., Alekos stepped down the garden path, passed the wrought iron gate, and broke into a slow jog down the quiet road outside Selin's villa.
He didn't have music. He didn't bring his phone. He didn't wear proper shoes.
He just ran.
Down the winding street. Past silent villas and shuttered cafés. The wind bit through his hoodie, and his breath came faster with each step, but he didn't stop. He didn't want to.
The ache in his chest turned into rhythm.
Into motion.
Into sweat and burning lungs.
And maybe that was the only way he could make sense of what was happening—because standing still inside that house, hearing Selin breathe while knowing what she'd lost, felt like drowning.
He'd run until the sun rose.
Until his legs gave out.
Until his heart felt something other than helpless.
And when he came back—
He'd be ready to stay.
By the time Alekos returned to the villa, the sky had softened into a dull gray-blue.
The garden shimmered with mist, and the birds had begun their first tentative songs, as if even they weren't quite ready to start the day.
He stepped through the front gate slowly, his breath steady but chest still tight, shirt damp with sweat and morning fog. His legs ached in a way that felt earned—finally, his body hurt in a way his heart could understand.
Inside, the villa was still.
Unchanged.
Except maybe the silence had settled deeper.
He locked the door behind him quietly and walked through the hallway barefoot, careful not to make a sound.
When he checked on her, Selin was still asleep.
Curled on her side beneath the covers. Lips parted. One hand tucked under her cheek like a child. Her breathing was peaceful now, but her face held the kind of exhaustion that sleep alone couldn't cure.
He closed the door without a sound.
Then, he walked to the guest room.
Stripped off his damp clothes. Stepped into the en suite bathroom and turned on the shower. Hot.
Steam filled the air, curling around his jaw and soaking into his skin.
For a long moment, he just stood under the stream—water rushing down his face, into his hair, dripping from his lashes. He closed his eyes and let it burn the edges of his thoughts clean.
When he finally stepped out, the mirror was fogged, and the world felt a little softer.
He pulled on a clean shirt, tossed the towel over the chair, and sat down at the edge of the bed just to rest his legs—
Just for a minute.
2:03 p.m.
The sun streamed in through the high windows.
Alekos blinked awake, groggy, eyes dry.
The guest room clock glared at him like it was laughing.
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his damp hair, heart skipping as the stillness settled back in.
He'd meant to check on her.
He'd meant to wake earlier.
But his body had caved.
And now… it was the middle of the afternoon.
Was she awake?
Had she eaten?
Had she… left?
He stood up, heart kicking slightly in his chest, and headed for the door.
The hallway was quiet as Alekos stepped out of the guest room, blinking against the sunlight bleeding through the high windows of the villa.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, ran a hand through his still-damp hair, and turned toward the kitchen.
And then he smelled it.
The unmistakable, mouthwatering scent of grilled meat, sizzling onions, toasted bread.
Döner.
He turned the corner slowly.
Selin stood at the stove, barefoot, hair tied loosely back, wearing one of his oversized hoodies—the hem nearly reaching her knees. She was quietly focused, layering spiced lamb slices onto warm bread, then adding pickles, garlic sauce, and a bit of chopped parsley like muscle memory.
A small mountain of sandwiches was forming on the counter beside her.
Alekos leaned against the doorway, watching her silently.
She hadn't noticed him yet.
And something about this—her, here, doing this—stilled him.
Not because she looked fine.
But because she looked like Selin again.
Still fragile.
Still quiet.
But moving.
Living.
And the smell… it took him back.
Flashback – Age 17
"Cut class with me," Selin had whispered, nudging him with her elbow as they sat behind the chemistry lab.
Alekos raised an eyebrow. "You're the one who actually cares about grades."
"I care about döner more," she grinned, flashing him that chaotic, dimpled smile that made rules irrelevant.
Twenty minutes later they were wedged into the back booth of a grimy diner with flickering lights and cracked salt shakers, sharing two döner sandwiches wrapped in greasy paper and far too much garlic sauce.
"The best thing about life," she'd mumbled through a bite, "is bread stuffed with meat and rebellion."
He laughed. "That should be on your tombstone."
"You can quote me."
They'd eaten fast, laughing between bites, fingers sticky, her leg brushing his under the table.
And when the school found out, she took the blame.
Said it was her idea.
Said he just followed her.
Which, in a way, had always been true.
Present Day
Selin turned around just as Alekos stepped into the kitchen.
"You're awake," she said softly.
He nodded. "You're cooking."
She shrugged, lifting a finished sandwich. "Thought I'd do something normal."
He walked over, picking up a second sandwich, the warmth bleeding into his hands.
"You remembered," he said.
"You say that like we never forgot," she replied.
They sat at the small kitchen table—one they had used for countless shared breakfasts and late-night leftovers—and took a bite at the same time.
One second of silence.
Then she said, "Still better than that place behind the school."
"Barely," he teased. "That one had character. And food poisoning."
She smiled.
A soft, real one.
The kind that reached her eyes—even just a little.
They finished their sandwiches in silence—warm, full, and familiar.
For a fleeting moment, Selin let herself pretend things were still simple.
But the second she looked up at Alekos and saw the peace — the fragile, fleeting peace — she knew she couldn't hold it in any longer.
She set her glass down gently.
"I have ovarian cancer."
The words came out flat. No drama. No buildup. Just the truth. Just the beginning of her unraveling.
Alekos blinked, slowly. "What?"
She swallowed. "I got a check up two days ago. They ran tests. Followed up. It's confirmed. It's early, but it's real."
He stood, the scrape of the chair loud against the tile. "You're joking."
"I'm not."
"You said you fainted because of stress. You said you were fine—"
"I'm not fine, Alekos."
Silence pulsed between them.
"I didn't want to tell you until I knew what it meant," she added.
He stared at her like she'd just disappeared.
"And what does it mean?" he asked, voice flat.
She hesitated.
And then whispered, "I can't have kids."
The air left the room.
He took a step back. "What?"
"The cancer's on both ovaries. There's too much damage already. Even if they remove it early, even if I survive—there won't be anything left."
"You just found out?" he asked, almost breathless.
She nodded. "Two days ago."
"And you've been—" He gestured wildly. "Cooking. Laughing. Pretending like—like you're just tired?!"
"I didn't want to fall apart."
"You should've fallen apart! With me!"
She flinched.
"I'm your best friend, Selin."
She looked down.
Alekos's voice cracked. "You always talked about being a mom."
"I know."
"You dreamed about it. You planned names. You bought that stupid tiny sweater at that market in Paris just because it reminded you of—"
"I know!" she screamed suddenly. "I know what I've lost!"
He froze.
She stood, hands shaking, voice breaking.
"I know exactly what I've lost. I don't need a list. I don't need reminders. I don't need guilt. I need to breathe, Alekos. I need to survive this before I can grieve for it."
He turned away.
And then, without a word—punched the wall.
"Goddammit!" he yelled, hitting it again. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? I would've—I would've held you together!"
She reached for him, but he stepped back.
"I'm fine," he muttered, his hand now bleeding. "I'm fine."
"You're not."
He looked at her—wild, broken, wet-eyed.
And then he stepped forward, pulled her into his arms so suddenly she barely caught her breath.
He held her like she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
"I should've known," he whispered.
"You couldn't have."
He held her tighter.
Then, his voice lowered: "I need to go. Just for a bit."
Selin pulled back slightly, scared. "Alekos—"
"I swear I'll be back."
Then he left — door closing softly behind him.
And Selin stood alone in the echo of everything she hadn't planned to say.
Alekos ran.
He didn't know where he was going—he didn't care.
He just ran.
Past the quiet street lamps flickering to life.
Past the villa-lined sidewalk where he and Selin once used to sneak out after curfew, laughing into the wind like they were untouchable.
He sat there, still panting, sweat cooling on his skin as the wind picked up.
Alekos didn't cry again.
He just… sat.
Stared at his hands.
The same hands that used to hold her backpack in middle school when she complained about the weight.
The same hands that pushed her on a swing, helped her fix her broken phone, carried her books, passed her tissues, cleaned up her scraped knees.
He always did something.
Always fixing something.
But this?
This wasn't a scraped knee or a broken phone.
This was her life.
Her body.
Her future.
And he couldn't do a damned thing about it.
He ran his fingers through his hair, gripping it at the roots.
He wanted to give her everything.
Not just flowers or reassurance or promises.
He wanted to give her what she lost.
A child.
A body that still worked.
A future with options.
He wanted to rip the stars from the sky and stitch them into her skin so she'd never feel hollow again.
He wanted to undo biology, time, fate.
But he couldn't.
That truth sat on his chest like iron.
It humiliated him.
It made him feel smaller than he ever had in his life.
How could he sit across from her and smile again, knowing she was bleeding quietly from something he couldn't see or stop?
"I would've carried the baby if I could," he whispered again, teeth gritted.
And he meant it.
Even if it meant his ribs cracked open.
Even if it destroyed him.
If it meant she'd never have to feel that emptiness — that shame the world carved into women who couldn't bear children — he would've taken it.
He would've ripped out his own worth and offered it.
But it wasn't enough.
Not this time.
He stood slowly, brushing off his jeans, blood still tacky on his knuckles.
The sky had gone from purple to black.
Her house was only a few blocks away.
And he had no idea what he'd say when he walked in.
But he had to go back.
Even if she couldn't be fixed.
Even if this wasn't a battle he could win.
She didn't need a savior.
She just needed someone to stay.
So he did.
He turned.
And walked back.