Amara didn't remember when she fell asleep. She only remembered the weight of Zayn's words pressing against her chest long after he had gone. The room felt too silent, too sterile, as though his absence had stolen all the air. She woke up the next morning with sunlight crawling across the bed, warming the sheets he hadn't touched.
For a long moment, she lay still, trying to convince herself it had all been a dream. But the ache in her chest reminded her that everything was real—Zayn's rejection, his cold eyes, the wall he had rebuilt between them with one single conversation.
She sat up slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. Her eyes drifted to the door, half-expecting it to open, for him to step in and tell her he'd changed his mind. But there was nothing. Just silence.
Dragging herself out of bed, she went through the motions of getting ready. Her movements were sluggish, like her body was moving underwater. In the mirror, she didn't recognize the girl staring back at her. She looked tired, hollow, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. The Amara in the mirror had loved too deeply, too fast, and now had to learn how to pull herself back together.
Downstairs, the housekeeper offered her a small smile and a warm breakfast, but Amara politely declined. Her stomach twisted at the thought of food. Instead, she walked out onto the terrace, hoping the fresh air would calm the storm inside her.
She stared out at the garden, where the flowers swayed gently in the breeze. How strange that the world continued spinning, that nature kept blooming, even when hearts broke and dreams withered.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Naomi.
"Lunch today? You need distraction. Don't argue."
Amara managed a soft smile. Trust Naomi to sense something was wrong without being told. She typed a quick reply.
"Okay. 1 p.m.?"
The reply came almost instantly.
"Perfect. Wear something cute. And no sulking."
Amara turned back inside, deciding distraction was probably the only remedy right now. She changed into a soft peach dress and applied some makeup to cover the evidence of her pain. When she looked at herself again, she didn't look quite as broken. Just enough to pass as fine.
The café Naomi chose was cozy, tucked into a quiet corner of the city with ivy crawling up its walls and the scent of cinnamon wafting through the air. Naomi was already there when she arrived, waving enthusiastically from their favorite booth.
"You look better than I expected," Naomi said, tilting her head as Amara slid into the seat opposite her. "But your eyes give you away."
Amara gave a half-shrug. "Didn't sleep well."
Naomi narrowed her gaze. "Talk to me."
Amara took a deep breath, her fingers curling around the edge of the table. "Zayn told me last night… he doesn't want a real marriage. Just a partnership. No love, no feelings involved."
Naomi's eyes widened. "Seriously? After everything?"
Amara nodded, the pain resurfacing. "He said love makes people weak. That he doesn't believe in it."
"That's rich coming from someone who looked like he wanted to kiss you senseless at your engagement dinner."
Amara gave a weak laugh. "Maybe I misread everything."
"No, sweetie, you didn't. He's just scared. That man has walls so high, I'm surprised you got through as much as you did. But you're not wrong for wanting more."
The food arrived—pasta and fresh lemonade—but Amara only picked at it. Her appetite still hadn't returned.
"Do you love him?" Naomi asked suddenly.
Amara froze. The question hit harder than she expected. "I don't know. Maybe. I care about him more than I should. I wanted to believe that maybe he cared too."
Naomi leaned in, her voice soft. "Then you fight for it. Or walk away and protect your heart. But don't stay in limbo."
That evening, Amara returned home to an empty house. Zayn hadn't come back. The ache in her chest deepened with every hour that passed without a word. She found herself sitting by the window, staring out into the night, hoping for headlights in the driveway. But it remained dark.
When she finally went to bed, sleep didn't come. Her mind replayed every conversation, every glance, every touch. She wondered how someone could look at her like she was their whole world and still deny the existence of love.
The next morning, Zayn was at the dining table, sipping coffee and reading the financial section of the newspaper. Amara blinked in surprise, unsure whether to feel relieved or more hurt.
He glanced up when she entered, nodding slightly. "Morning."
She sat down quietly, pouring herself some tea. "You're back."
"I had some work to take care of at the office."
"You could've told me."
He looked at her then, his expression unreadable. "I didn't think it mattered."
"It does," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He sighed and folded the paper. "Amara, I meant what I said. I don't want to hurt you, but I can't give you what you want."
"Then what are we doing?" she asked, setting her cup down. "Are we playing pretend? Wearing rings and sharing a name but living like strangers?"
His jaw tightened. "We agreed to this marriage. You knew it wasn't built on love."
"I agreed because I thought maybe it could become more."
He stood up, pushing the chair back. "I don't have the luxury of hoping for fairy tales, Amara. I live in the real world."
"Then maybe I don't belong in your world," she said quietly.
He stared at her for a long moment, then walked out without another word.
Later that day, Amara visited her old studio. The familiar scent of paint and canvas soothed something inside her. It had been weeks since she last picked up a brush, and her fingers itched to create. She pulled out a blank canvas, mixing colors that matched the swirl of emotion in her chest.
Her strokes were angry at first, then soft, then desperate. It wasn't a painting of anything specific—just emotion made visible. And as she painted, she realized that she had forgotten how much of herself she had set aside since the wedding.
She had tried so hard to fit into Zayn's world, to become the wife he needed, that she had lost pieces of herself in the process.
When she finally stepped back from the canvas, it looked like freedom.
That night, she left the door to her bedroom open. She didn't know if it was a silent invitation or a challenge. But Zayn didn't come. The space between them was no longer just emotional—it had become physical, a gap that grew wider with each passing day.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how two people could sleep under the same roof and feel so far apart.
At midnight, her phone buzzed again.
Zayn: I saw your painting. It's beautiful.
Amara blinked at the screen, her heart thudding.
Me: Thank you. It felt good to paint again.
His reply came after a few minutes.
Zayn: I'm sorry.
Just two words. No explanation. No promises. But they meant something.
She stared at the message, wondering if it was the start of something new—or just another pause before more silence.
Maybe love wasn't always grand declarations or perfect timing. Maybe it was a man who listened quietly. A man who gave you a key to yourself.