Sometimes, I wondered if I was imagining the shifts in Richard. If I was reading too much into silences that lingered a second longer, or the way his hand brushed against mine, not out of habit, but deliberation.
But then he would vanish again—emotionally, if not physically.
He was still polite. Still distant. Still Richard.
But just when I thought we were building something more than convenience, he would draw back.
And I'd remember. This wasn't love. This wasn't even courtship.
This was a contract sealed with vows neither of us believed in.
One Thursday morning, I entered the dining room to find a single envelope placed on my side of the table.
I opened it cautiously.
A ticket.
"Business Conference – Zurich. One seat. One week."
I looked up as Richard walked in, adjusting the cufflinks on his sleeve. Mira followed with coffee.
"You're going?" I asked, holding the ticket.
He nodded once. "Yes. Tomorrow."
I waited.
No offer for me to come. No request. No explanation.
Just space. Again.
I folded the envelope and placed it neatly back on the table. "Okay."
That night, I stared at the ceiling, wide awake.
I hated the way silence crept into my veins and made a home there. I hated that I had started expecting more from him when I knew better. I hated that the smallest flickers of warmth from him had started to matter to me.
What did I want from him?
Love?
No. That wasn't realistic.
Respect? Understanding?
Maybe.
Maybe I just wanted to stop feeling like a stranger in my own life.
He left early the next morning.
No goodbye. Just the sound of tires against gravel as the car drove away.
I walked into his study after breakfast, unsure what I was looking for.
The room smelled faintly of his cologne. Everything in its place. Cold. Perfect.
A faint memory tugged at me—the sound of the piano, the low echo of a song played in half-light.
I sat at the piano bench and lifted the cover. My fingers hovered over the keys.
I didn't know how to play. Not really.
But I touched them anyway.
A soft, shaky note escaped.
The room didn't warm. But it didn't reject me either. Just how Richard's relationship was with me.
I left the room to continue on with another day with the same lingering feeling of solitude.
Three days passed.
I busied myself with reports and project feedback. I helped Mira reorganize the library wing. I read for hours in the solarium, even though the sun felt wrong without someone on the other side of the glass.
Then, on the fourth night, I received a call.
"Lara?" The voice was breathless. High-pitched. Urgent.
It was Layla.
My cousin, though I rarely thought of her that way.
"Layla? What's wrong?"
"It's Auntie. She fell. She's in the hospital."
I arrived within the hour.
The hospital room was dim, Aunt Ramila asleep on a stiff white bed. A nurse whispered that she had slipped in the bathroom and broken her hip. She'd need surgery. Recovery would be long.
"She kept asking for you," the nurse said. "Wouldn't let anyone else near her."
I stood there, uncertain.
This woman had raised me.
She had criticized me. Controlled me. Guilt-tripped me into paying her bills and carrying her burdens.
But she had also fed me. Given me a place to sleep. Given me… some version of a home.
I didn't cry. But I sat down beside her, held her frail hand, and whispered, "I'm here."
When I returned home, it was past midnight.
I didn't expect anyone to be awake.
But as I stepped into the hallway, I found Richard standing at the end of it, luggage still at his feet, his coat unbuttoned.
He looked at me like he hadn't meant to see me.
"You're back," I said.
He nodded. "I just arrived."
"You didn't tell me."
"You didn't tell me you left either."
We stared at each other. Neither of us moved.
Then he asked, "What happened?"
I told him everything. About my aunt. The hospital. The nurse. The fall.
He didn't interrupt. Just listened.
When I finished, he asked quietly, "Are you okay?"
And for once, I didn't know what to say.
Because I didn't know.