The first morning in Ayaan's house felt like stepping into a museum - polished, silent, and cold. Zoya woke up early, the dawn light brushing her face. She turned to find the other side of the bed untouched.
Ayaan hadn't come to bed.
She found him in the study, dressed, sipping coffee, his eyes fixed on a file. He didn't even glance at her.
"Good morning," she said softly.
No reply.
"I've made breakfast."
"Not hungry." His voice was clipped, mechanical.
Zoya stood for a moment, trying to find a bridge to reach him. But he buried himself in silence. She turned and left, her heart aching, but not breaking.
---
Days turned into weeks. Zoya moved through the house like a quiet breeze - cooking, cleaning, caring. Every small gesture of affection she offered was met with silence or indifference.
Sometimes, he spoke - only when necessary.
"Don't touch my things."
"Don't wait for me at night."
"You don't have to act like a wife."
Still, she smiled. Still, she made his favorite tea. Still, she folded his clothes and left small notes with quotes she thought he might like.
He never read them.
Zoya wrote in her diary at night: "He's not cruel. Just closed. I don't know what pain he carries, but I will not let him face it alone."
---
One evening, after a tense business call, Ayaan stormed into the kitchen. Zoya was setting his dinner.
"Why are you always smiling?" he snapped. "Do you enjoy pretending everything is perfect?"
Zoya looked at him with steady eyes. "I smile because I believe things can get better."
"Don't waste your hope on me," he said, leaving the food untouched again.
When he left the room, Zoya sat in his place and silently prayed: "Give me strength not to hate him. Give him peace so he can love."