Felt and Fell

Forty-Four

Aditya

The room was dark with only presence being  Zoya’s sleeping form.

It was barely 4 AM, the world outside still lost in slumber, and here I was, torn between my duty and the irresistible comfort of her presence.

Zoya was nestled in my arms, her breath even and warm against my chest, her delicate fingers resting over my heart.

Leaving her like this felt like tearing a part of myself away, but I had to go—my flight awaited, and I had responsibilities to meet.

I moved carefully, inch by inch, trying not to disturb her.

As I finally slid out of bed, Zoya let out a soft sigh, turning slightly as if reaching out for me.

I paused, watching her with a mix of guilt and tenderness before heading to the shower.

My pilot uniform lay neatly on the chair, and as I slipped it on, I caught glimpses of her reflection in the mirror, her soft curls splayed out on the pillow like a halo.

She looked peaceful, almost ethereal—like a dreamy angel, and for a moment, I wished I could freeze time, just to stay by her side a little longer.

Once dressed, I returned to the room, my shoes barely making a sound on the carpet.

She shifted again, her arms stretching towards my side of the bed, searching, her fingers finding only the cool emptiness of the sheets.

"Adiii...." Her sleepy mumnle calling for me reached my heart.

A pang shot through me.

She clutched the pillow I had been using, pulling it close as if hoping to draw comfort from it in my absence.

My heart swelled at the sight—there was something so innocent, so vulnerably sweet about the way she sought me even in her sleep.

"Adii?" she murmured, her voice soft and slurred with sleep, a hint of worry lacing her tone as she continued to search for me.

The sound of my name on her lips was a melody I never grew tired of.

She couldn't bear sleeping without me—I knew it, felt it in every soft breath she took.

I couldn't even begin to imagine how she might have been sleeping and feeling in my absence whenever I went out for duty.

The thought haunted me, creeping into my mind during quiet moments in the cockpit, or in the stillness of a hotel room far from home. It was a strange contradiction—being a pilot meant I was always on the move....every departure felt like a piece of me stayed behind with her.

The way she held onto me, even in her sleep, told me all I needed to know about how deeply she felt my absence.

I often wondered how many times she’d woken up in the middle of the night, reaching out for me only to find an empty bed and the lingering scent of me on the sheets.

Did she lie there, staring at the ceiling, counting the minutes until I returned?

Did she clutch my pillow close, breathing in the faint traces of my cologne, hoping it would be enough to lull her back to sleep?

I knew she hated sleeping alone—she’d told me as much on nights when I was around to hold her, her voice barely above a whisper as she confessed her fears of waking up without me beside her.

Sometimes, when I called her from layovers, I could hear it in her voice—the unspoken longing, the quiet frustration masked by her usual cheer. She never said it outright, but I knew the nights were hardest for her. She wasn’t the type to complain; she was too strong for that, too resilient. But I knew. I could see it in the way she looked at me when I came back, the mix of relief and reproach in her eyes, as if she was both glad and slightly wounded that I had to leave at all.