Ayan's Apartment
The city outside his window pulsed with light, but inside, everything was steel and stillness.
Ayan sat on the couch, hair damp from the shower, a glass of water sweating against his palm.
His mind replayed the fight like a broken film reel—every word, every look, the sound of his own voice breaking.
Pathetic.
He should've walked. Should've shut him down clean.
Instead—
He slammed the glass down harder than necessary, water sloshing over his fingers.
What the hell does he want from me?
The thought burned, sharper than it should.
Worse—why do I care enough to ask?
---
Kairo's Room
Dim light pooled over an unmade bed. A phone lay in Kairo's palm, screen glowing soft blue against his skin.
No messages.
He didn't expect any.
But his thumb hovered over Ayan's name like it had its own pulse.
One word. One push.
He could break the silence if he wanted.
He didn't.
Not yet.
Instead, he leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling, jaw tight.
He could still hear the echo of Ayan's voice, that crack in the ice when he shouted.
Raw.
Real.
Like a door opening for half a second before slamming shut.
And that glimpse?
It was enough to burn him alive.
---
Back to Ayan
He checked his phone without thinking.
Blank.
Good.
He hated that the blank felt worse than a message ever could.
---
Back to Kairo
His thumb finally moved.
One tap.
A message typed and erased.
Then another.
Then—
He set the phone down with a sharp breath and laughed low, dark, like someone amused at his own madness.
Not yet, Ayan.
But soon.
---
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