No Conditions, Whatsoever

Resentment

Reminder: Pray.

Author's PoV:

The key turned in the lock, and Ayan stepped into the apartment with the same boyish energy he always carried. He shook off his shoes, ran a hand through his thick hair, and called out, "Feiha? I swear today’s traffic tried to kill me. I deserve a bravery award.”

Silence.

His brows drew together.

He found her in the kitchen, facing the stove, her dupatta wrapped neatly around her. Her back was straight. Composed. She didn’t turn.

"Hey, wifey," he said, stepping behind her, hands casually resting on the counter beside her. "Missed me?"

"I’ve made your tea," she said, voice cool, not quite cold—but distant. She poured the steaming cup and handed it to him without meeting his eyes.

Ayan blinked. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

The words were clipped. Measured. Not the soft lilt he was used to.

Before he could press further, she took her own cup and walked away. Not toward the balcony where they always sat together, not to the couch—but to the bedroom.

She closed the door behind her with a quiet click.

Ayan stood there, cup warming his hand, heart tightening with something he couldn't yet name.

It wasn’t like her to withdraw. Not like this. Not when they had just found their rhythm, their soft, ordinary joy.

He knocked once before pushing the bedroom door open. She sat on the edge of the bed, cup in her hand, eyes trained on the window.

"Feiha," he said gently, "what's going on?"

She looked at him, slowly. Calm. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes burned.

“Where were you during lunch?”

Ayan’s fingers flexed around the cup. He kept his voice light. “I was out for a bit. Got coffee.”

"With Daneen?"

Silence exploded in the room.

Ayan’s heart skipped. “You… saw me?”

Her lips curled bitterly. “You tell me.”

He stepped closer, slowly, carefully. “Feiha, listen—”

"I am listening." Her voice was low now, steady like the moments before a storm. “I’m listening to what you’re going to tell me about why you were sitting with a girl who once told me you kissed her.”

Ayan stared at her, searching her face for something—trust, softness, doubt, anything—but she had locked herself into something he didn’t know how to reach.

He ran a hand through his hair and said, almost too quietly, “I can’t tell you.”

The room froze.

Feiha blinked once, twice.

"You can’t?" she repeated. "You won’t, you mean."

“No. I mean—” he exhaled harshly. “It’s not my story to tell.”

She stood up. "Not your story? Ayan, you’re married to me. Do you understand what that means?"

“I do. But this isn’t about us. She—she came to me for help. That’s all.”

"And you couldn’t even mention it?"

“I was trying to handle it—without hurting you. Clearly, I failed at that."