Muted

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

"I've been assigned a marriage."

The words struck like a blow, shattering the silence between you.

You should have known something was wrong the moment he asked you to sit down when you came through his door that evening. His voice carried a weight that made your heart sink. And now, for the first time since you'd started feeling emotions, you wished you could shut them off, snuff them out like a candle.

Yuzuru's gaze met yours across the table, where delicate paper flowers were strewn. They were made from old newspapers, folded with care—a skill he had taught you just a few nights ago. He had called it 'origami,' his voice soft and patient as he guided your clumsy hands. Suddenly, the memory of that night felt distant, overshadowed by the cruel reality that had just been spoken.

"Marriage?" The word caught in your throat, and you prayed you had misunderstood.

He nodded, and even through your shock, you couldn't help but wonder how he remained so calm.

"What are you going to do?" you asked, even though deep down, you already knew the answer.

There was nothing he could do.

In the District, every able-bodied person was eventually assigned a marriage by the Regime. Denying the Regime and going against their will was as good as turning yourself in as a Sense Offender. It meant imprisonment, or worse. 

If Yuzuru wanted to survive—if he wanted to continue feeling, to keep that precious part of himself alive—he had no choice but to comply.  His option was to either marry or be muted. The realization twisted like a knife in your gut.

"What choice do I have?" His voice faltered, and for the briefest of moments, the carefully constructed wall he hid behind showed a crack.

You knew it was foolish, but your heart forced the question out anyway, one you already knew the answer to. "It's not me?"

Like a concrete building during demolition, his facade crumbled into a million pieces. His brows knit together, his eyes glistened with unshed tears, and a bitter smile twisted his lips. Only then did you notice the red streaks in the whites of his eyes.

"I would have been happy if it was you," he whispered.

A sound tore from your throat, something raw and primal, caught between a cry and a scream—a sound that embodied the depths of your anguish, a sound that echoed your breaking heart.