The day moved slowly.
Ayla sat curled up on the far end of the sofa, knees pulled to her chest, a throw blanket draped over her legs. Her laptop rested open on the coffee table, her fingers hovering above the keyboard, but the screen barely held her attention.
She was supposed to be finishing a report. Something due tomorrow. Something her team would be waiting on.
But all she could think about was this morning.
The weight of Silas's fingers on her forehead.
The sharpness of his gaze—direct, heavy, overwhelming.
The coldness of his voice, and how even that stirred something warm in the hollow of her chest.
It didn't make sense. She knew that. She wasn't a teenager with rose-tinted dreams. She knew what they were—what 'they weren't' . Silas never promised anything. Never looked at her the way her heart begged him to. Never gave her even the illusion of being wanted.
Yet here she was, trembling like a girl in love over a simple check for fever.
Pathetic, she whispered to herself, dragging the blanket higher.
But she couldn't help it.
The apartment had changed so much in the past two weeks, but Silas hadn't said a single word about it. Her pink slippers sat at the front door next to his black loafers. Her small, pastel-colored towels hung quietly next to his dark, crisp ones. Even her stupid plushie—a soft brown bear with a crooked smile—rested on the edge of the sofa now, untouched by judgment.
He had let it all be.
That, in itself, felt like a miracle.
She didn't know what he thought of her—not really. He never said. Never asked why she stayed. Never asked when she'd leave. Never questioned why she was here in the first place, occupying space in his meticulously organized life.
And maybe that was what hurt the most.
His silence.
Not cruel. Not kind.
Just... neutral.
He wasn't ignoring her. He just didn't 'see' her. Not the way she wanted to be seen. Not as a woman. Not as someone who could be 'his'.
The ache in her stomach had settled a little since morning, but her emotions were wrecked.
This was what her bad days always did—amplified every insecurity, sharpened every self-doubt until it screamed inside her skull.
She pressed her forehead against her knees.
'What am I doing here?'
Her hands gripped the hem of the blanket tighter.
She had come here out of desperation. To escape. To feel safe. And maybe somewhere in the corner of her heart, she had hoped that proximity might do what years of silence couldn't. That maybe… just maybe… being near him would make him notice.
But he didn't. He never did.
And she was growing roots in a house where she was still just a guest.
A silent shadow lingering in the periphery of his routines.
The sound of a chair scraping made her jerk up.
Silas had stood up. He glanced at her, his expression unreadable, and then said quietly, "I'll be out for a few hours. There's food in the kitchen."
Ayla nodded before she could even think.
'He didn't ask if she wanted anything. Didn't say where he was going. Didn't ask if she was okay staying alone.'
But she didn't mind.
She was used to being alone. What mattered to her was that he 'spoke'.
Even if it was just a sentence. Even if it was about something as mundane as food.
The moment he walked out and closed the door behind him, Ayla's chest sank.
She leaned her head back against the sofa and stared at the ceiling.
She felt like crying and didn't know why.
'This is not love,' she told herself firmly. 'It shouldn't be.'
But then again… what else could it be?
She wasn't this stupid with anyone else. No one else had this kind of power to undo her with a look, a word, a touch.
And that was the saddest part of it all—because she knew, deep down, Silas didn't even realize what he was doing to her.
He never asked for her love.
And yet she had already given it.
Silently. Fully. Hopelessly.