Zoya didn't know which was worse - Ayaan's silence or the rare moments he spoke with sharp, cutting words.
He didn't raise his hand. He didn't shout often. But his coldness was a blade that sliced deeper each time.
One morning, Shireen Malik visited. Zoya served her tea, carefully prepared the way she liked it - cardamom and strong.
But Ayaan interrupted.
"Don't act like the perfect daughter-in-law. It's not a drama."
Zoya's hand trembled as she held the tray, but she said nothing. Shireen glanced at her son sharply, but remained silent too.
Later, when they were alone, Zoya said quietly, "If you want to embarrass me, do it when we're alone. Not in front of your mother."
Ayaan narrowed his eyes. "You don't get to tell me how to behave. You're here because she wanted you here."
Zoya bowed her head. "Still, I am your wife."
"You're nothing to me," he snapped.
---
He started punishing her in quiet, calculated ways.
He threw away her food when she wasn't looking.
He locked the study and told her to stay out of it.
He cut off her access to the driver, forcing her to walk to the market.
Each time, Zoya endured.
---
One rainy afternoon, Zoya slipped in the hallway. Her foot twisted, and she fell hard. The housemaid ran to help her, but Ayaan only watched from the stairs.
"You should be more careful," he said, then turned and walked away.
That night, Zoya applied balm to her swollen ankle and wrote in her diary:
"Love is patient. It doesn't demand or judge. Even if he cannot love me today, I will still be here tomorrow."
---
But in his room, Ayaan couldn't sleep. That image of her on the ground haunted him - not because he felt guilt, but because something deep inside him had stirred. Something that made him angry with himself.
He got up, walked to her door, and stood there for a while.
Then turned away, like always.
---