(Arga's POV)
I didn't come for Nia at first.
I came for her mother.
An old woman with a small, creaking cough—like a rusty door hinge. Stubborn, but never completely closed.
I bought two packs of coffee and a bar of soap. What I was really buying was a reason to come back tomorrow.
"Where do you work, Son?"
I smiled, slipping in that well-rehearsed note of weary politeness.
"At a property project office, Ma'am. In reporting and procurement."
"Ah, that's a good job," she said, delighted—as if I'd just proposed to her daughter on the spot.
That's the thing: the first key to every door is trustworthiness.
And I was calm, because I'd long mastered the art of calming storms—not stopping them.
From that evening on, I came by often.
Sometimes I bought soap. Sometimes I just dropped off a newspaper I'd already half-read.
The old lady was talkative, but warm. She liked to talk about the price of chili, about her daughter who wrote well but still hadn't married.
I listened patiently.
A man who listens is a rare creature—and rare things are easy to trust.
Over time, I began noticing Nia. Her hair tied up carelessly, ink smudged on her finger, lips slightly parted when she wrote—as if holding back a prayer.
She wasn't pretty in the brochure sense, but there was something clean about her face—like a blank page untouched by anyone.
Sometimes, she'd glance at me with a shy suspicion.
"You pass by here a lot, don't you?"
"Yeah. The air's different here."
"Air? You mean the dust?"
"Even dust stays calm—if the wind leaves it alone."
She laughed. A simple laugh, but it sounded like water filling a glass. And I knew, from that first laugh, that I'd keep coming back.
Each time I came, her mother grew softer toward me. Until one sunset—its color like melted palm sugar—I finally said,
"Ma'am, if I'm serious about proposing to Nia, would you give your blessing?"
She paused mid-stirring her tea, then looked at me long and deep.
"If your intentions are good, Son, you have my blessing."
The words felt like a benediction. But beneath them, I planted a lie—neatly, quietly.
I wasn't poor. My salary was fine, my position decent—field coordinator turned operations staff. My shirt was ironed, my watch real though paid in installments. And yes—
I had a wife.
And a small child whose voice sometimes broke through the walls of my conscience.
I wasn't proud. But life rarely gives you time to fix your sins before lunch.
The day I proposed, I came in the company car, wearing cheap cologne sprayed too generously. Her mother prepared tea. Nia stayed in the kitchen, head bowed.
"I came with good intentions," I said.
"I want to propose to Nia."
A spoon clattered. The tea almost spilled.
But no one asked a thing.
They just smiled—relieved, as if the world had finally given them a good day.
And I, as always, knew when silence could do my work for me.
Her mother clasped my hand.
"Take care of her, Son. She trusts easily."
I nodded.
In my head, her words echoed like a signed contract.
That night, I stared at my phone in the dim light of my rented dorm. One call came in:
My Wife.
"Hello? Honey,are you still awake?" her voice—flat, familiar.
"Yeah. Overtime."
"Your son's asking for you. Says he misses you. Wanna talk to him?"
"Sure."
A small, bright voice followed.
"Daddy! I drew a house! It has two doors—one for Mommy, one for Daddy, so you don't have to be far!"
I went quiet. My chest tightened—not with pain, but with something gentler, like choking on warm water.
"That's beautiful, kiddo. Daddy's coming home tomorrow, okay?"
"Promise?"
"Promise."
After the call ended, the phone stayed warm in my palm. I stared at it for a long time, then set it down on the table.
Silence.
The buzz of street power lines hummed through the window like boiling water.
I took a long breath. In my mind's eye, Nia's face appeared—soft smile, messy hair, trusting eyes. I knew I was spinning two worlds with one hand.
And I knew, sooner or later, one would collapse.
But that night, I only wanted calm.
Because for men like me, calm is a luxury—
and lies are simply the price to pay.
The next morning, I was ready for work: blue shirt, polished shoes, tidy expression. In the rearview mirror, my reflection looked calm, polite, trustworthy.
I smiled faintly.
Not because I was happy—but because I'd realized something:
The most convincing smile is the one born from a perfect lie.
And to this day, everyone still believes me.
And I'm still in control.
—To be Continued—