Zain sat on the very edge of Noah’s sofa — not relaxed, not leaning back, but as if the cushions beneath him were burning.
His elbows dug into his knees, fingers locked over his forehead, shoulders heavy and tense.
His shirt was creased from hours of restlessness, the first two buttons slightly open.
His hair— usually neat, usually controlled— had fallen over his forehead in messy strands.
His eyes, swollen from lack of sleep and alcohol, reflected a tired man trying to hold himself together.
Noah walked out from the kitchen with slow, careful steps, carrying a glass of water like it meant something.
Her eyes never left him.
Noah:
“You should lie down, Zain.”
No response.
He didn’t even blink.
She pressed her lips together, irritation rising.
Noah:
“Zain… are you listening to me?”
He finally lifted his head.
And even half-drunk, his gaze was sharper than anger, duller than pain— a strange mix that made Noah freeze for a heartbeat.
Zain (quiet but heavy):
“Why did you call Amal?”
The words weren’t shouted.
They didn’t need to be.
They hit harder because they were calm.
Noah’s fingers tightened around the glass.
Her eyes flickered — caught and frazzled.
Noah:
“I— I thought she should know how you were. I was just— trying to help.”
The edge of Zain’s jaw twitched.
Even in this state, something powerful returned to him — that authority, that dominance Noah had always admired.
Zain:
“No, Noah.
You weren’t helping.
You crossed a line.”
A breath escaped Noah’s mouth, shaky and offended.
Noah:
“She’s your wife, Zain. She should know.
What is the problem?”
Zain got up.
Slow, slightly unsteady— but not weak.
He stood like a storm about to break.
Zain:
“Next time… don’t touch my phone.
And don’t interfere between me and Amal.”
The controlled warning in his tone made Noah step back half a step.
Her eyes glistened with a mixture of hurt, disbelief, and rage.
Noah:
“Zain… you don’t see anything, do you?
She doesn’t love you. I do—”
Zain (cutting in, voice like ice):
“Stop.”
The word didn’t echo.
It stabbed.
Silence filled the room — heavy, unbearable.
Zain dragged a hand over his face, as if trying to scrub away the exhaustion, the alcohol, the argument, everything.
Zain:
“I’m going home.
Don’t make this more difficult.”
Noah felt it like a slap —
the distance,
the closing door between them,
the choice he kept making.
He walked toward the exit.
Noah’s breath grew louder, faster.
Noah (voice shaking with anger):
“Zain… you’re choosing her again.”
He paused at the door.
His back straightened, shoulders squared, jaw clenched.
But he didn’t turn.
And that silence…
that silence hurt her more than any words.
Noah’s voice cracked.
YOU ARE READING
LOVE WITHOUT DESTINY
Romansa"Love is a journey, but when destiny takes the wheel, it often leads to a destination unknown.".
