My Mr. Artist

Chapter 25

Morning hues slipped through the thin curtains, casting soft golden streaks across his face — like dawn itself was peeking in, curious to see who lay within. The warmth of light nudged him awake, and Saransh stirred with a groan, half-conscious, head pounding with a dull ache that felt like an alarm ringing inside his skull.

With sluggish effort, he finally managed to sit up from his awkward sprawl on the floor. His first instinct was to squint toward the source of light — the curtains swaying gently, sun still low — early morning, he concluded hazily. Then his eyes dropped to himself.

He must've looked pathetic.

The so-called "carpet bed" was nothing more than an illusion; most of him had spent the night on the cold marble. His legs were numb, shirt wrinkled, hair a complete mess. The soreness behind his eyes and the dryness in his throat made him let out a long, heavy sigh. Bracing his arm against the wall, he shifted to sit up straighter, taking a deep breath before finally opening his eyes fully.

And froze.

Across from him, on the couch, she slept — curled in a small bundle, knees pulled to her chest like a child seeking warmth. Her breathing was calm, even. The faint morning light kissed her face, softening her features, making her look impossibly gentle.

For a long time, he simply stared.

The ache in his head dulled, replaced by something else — something quieter, heavier, tender. The sight of her sleeping there felt like balm to a wound that never healed.

He remembered the night before — her trembling apology, the fear in her voice, the way she had clung to him as if letting go meant breaking apart. The way his heart had stopped when she'd run into the road, how the world had gone still until he had her in his arms again. Her warmth. Her scent. The tiny tremors that ran through her body as she cried against his chest.

And then...

Her sudden silence.
Her distance.
The invisible wall that reappeared between them the moment they'd reached her building.

The small smile that had crept onto his lips faded, leaving behind the echo of last night's ache — the reminder that no matter how close she had been in his arms, she was still miles away from his reach.

_

The entire meal that night had been silent — painfully so.
Saransh glanced at her a few times. Kiyah was eating little, drinking more. He wanted to stop her, to take the can from her hand, but what right did he have? He was the reason she'd become like this.

A bitter taste filled his mouth. Without another thought, he reached for the beer he'd kept aside — the one he'd promised not to touch because he had to drive — and downed it in one go.
For more than half an hour, they sat like that. Two broken people, quietly drowning in their own bottles, in their own silence.

Then she spoke.

"Ansh," she began, her voice slurred yet steady. "If— and I'm saying if— we were married... but you didn't love me. Maybe I didn't love you either. But because of family expectations, we got married anyway. And then one day, I find out that my husband still meets his ex. Still goes to her house. Says he still loves her. Kisses her..."
She let out a dry scoff. "How do you think I'd feel as your wife?"

Her words hung in the air like smoke.
Saransh didn't move. He opened another can, finished it in seconds, and leaned back on the couch, eyes closed, face tilted toward the ceiling — as if he wasn't the subject of her monologue.

Kiyah didn't care whether he replied or not. She kept going, her tone softer, more fragile.
"I would care. Even if you didn't love me. Even if I didn't love you. I'd still care, because you're my husband. I'd still care..."