The first few days passed in a carefully constructed silence.

Sharjeena made it a point to avoid him as much as possible. She timed her movements with precision—waking up early enough to have coffee before he emerged from his room, slipping into the kitchen when he was in the living room, retiring to her room before he returned from work. She pretended he didn't exist.

But the problem was, he did exist.

She could *feel* him.

Every time he was in the same space as her, it was as if the air changed. It grew heavier, charged with unspoken words and emotions too tangled to name.

And then there were the stolen glances.

She would catch him looking at her when he thought she wasn't paying attention—his eyes lingering on her face, tracing every change, every expression, like he was memorizing her all over again.

It infuriated her.

"What?" she snapped one evening when she caught him watching her from the dining table.

Mustafa looked away immediately, his fingers curling into his palm. "Nothing."

She scoffed. "Yeah, right."

She hated how he didn't even defend himself anymore. The Mustafa she once knew would've argued, would've thrown back a sarcastic remark. But now? Now he just *took* it.

And somehow, that angered her more.

---

### The Cracks Begin to Show

At first, she wasn't paying enough attention to notice. But slowly, little things started standing out.

How he barely ate.

How he pushed food around his plate during the rare occasions they sat at the same table, never actually finishing a meal.

How his side of the fridge was almost empty, aside from bottled water and a few takeout containers that seemed untouched.

How his eyes carried a hollowness that hadn't been there before, a darkness that seemed to grow deeper each passing day.

She wasn't supposed to care.

She had promised herself she wouldn't.

And yet...

One night, as she made herself tea, she glanced into the living room and found him sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the muted TV. The remote lay untouched beside him, his hands clasped between his knees. He looked lost.

For a fleeting second, she wanted to say something.

But what was there to say?

*You did this to yourself.*

Instead, she gritted her teeth and returned to her room.

---

One evening, she stepped onto the balcony, expecting the same emptiness that had greeted her in their old apartment.

But she was wrong.

A row of potted plants lined the edges of the small space, carefully placed and tended to. There were roses, jasmine. Some of the pots were new, but others... others were ones she recognized.

On instinct, she crouched down, running her fingers over the soil, feeling its dampness. They were well cared for.

Her chest tightened.

She remembered telling him once—years ago—that she wanted a garden of her own. That she loved the smell of fresh earth, the feeling of new life growing between her fingers.

Had he done this... for *her?*

A lump formed in her throat, but before she could dwell on it, she heard movement behind her.

She turned to see Mustafa standing in the doorway, a watering can in hand.

For a long moment, they just stared at each other.

Then, without a word, he stepped forward, kneeling beside the plants, carefully pouring water into each pot. His movements were slow, almost methodical.

And then—he spoke.

Not to her, but to the plants.

"You're growing well," he murmured to one of the jasmine plants, brushing a leaf gently between his fingers. "Stronger than the last batch."

Sharjeena's lips parted in surprise.

He was *talking* to them?

A ridiculous urge to laugh bubbled in her chest. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, watching him as he moved from plant to plant, whispering small encouragements.

It was... oddly endearing.

She looked away, shaking her head at herself.

*No. No soft feelings.*

Still, as she walked back inside, she realized she was smiling. Just a little.

-----

It happened on an evening when Sharjeena had cooked only for herself. Or at least, that's what she told herself.

She wasn't sure what compelled her to step into the kitchen that night and make something from scratch. Maybe it was the unbearable silence of the apartment, the way it felt too empty despite their forced cohabitation. Or maybe it was just that she was tired—tired of eating bland takeout, tired of pretending everything was fine.

So she made daal and rice, simple and warm, something she used to cook when their days had been happier.

She didn't expect him to eat.

In fact, she was certain he wouldn't. Mustafa had barely touched food since she arrived, and she had noticed. She had tried to ignore the way his face had grown leaner, the way his hands trembled slightly when he reached for his cup of tea.

But when she finished eating and left the pot on the stove, she found him in the kitchen an hour later.

She stood frozen in the hallway, hidden from view, watching as he hesitated before lifting the lid. The moment the scent of the daal hit him, his fingers clenched around the handle of the spoon.

Then, without a word, he served himself.

Sharjeena watched as he took a seat at the dining table, his posture stiff, as though he were bracing himself for something painful.

He lifted the first spoonful to his mouth, and as soon as the taste hit his tongue, his eyes fluttered shut.

His jaw tensed. His throat bobbed.

And then—before he could stop it—a single tear escaped, sliding silently down his cheek.

Sharjeena felt something twist violently inside her.

He wiped it away hastily and then—almost desperately—began eating faster, as if he didn't want to give himself time to feel whatever it was that had gripped him.

She swallowed hard, pressing a hand against her stomach, where an unfamiliar ache had settled.

She had wanted to believe that he didn't care. That he had moved on with his life, that he had built a world without her in it.

But watching him now—watching the way he ate like a man starved, not just for food but for something deeper, something lost—she realized that wasn't true.

And for the first time in months, she wasn't sure if that made things easier or infinitely harder.