Aaryan's POV
He didn't notice the silence at first.
Not consciously.
It started the way most things did in his life — subtly, amidst too many emails, an avalanche of surgical reports, and three board meetings scheduled back-to-back across different branches. The countrywide restructure was devouring his hours, each branch's compliance issue a fresh thorn in his already frayed focus.
But the silence — her silence — somehow carved the deepest wound.
⸻
It had been a week.
Seven full days since Inaaya had last looked him in the eye.
⸻
At first, he thought she was just tired. He knew her schedule. Knew the cases she was working. Knew the hours she slept. (He wasn't proud of that detail, but the familiarity had crept in so naturally, it no longer felt intrusive.)
He told himself it was fine — that space was normal. He wasn't the kind of man to pry.
But when her responses reduced to one-word answers...
When she stopped joining him for coffee at the corner bench after late-night rounds...
When she started avoiding the apartment altogether, choosing the hospital dorms under the excuse of "early morning shifts" he knew damn well didn't exist...
It got under his skin.
⸻
He saw her once — three days ago — in the cardiology wing.
She was talking to Aryav, nodding at something he said. There was that usual warmth in her expression, the tilt of her brow when she was listening deeply.
And then she saw Aaryan from across the corridor.
She blinked once. Gave a tight nod.
And walked away.
⸻
Something twisted inside him.
A sharp, bitter thing.
He told himself it didn't matter. He had meetings to prepare for. Admin to drown in. Audits pending. A visiting surgeon to review.
He buried himself in it all.
But then he'd get home, shrug off his coat, and find the silence too loud.
⸻
She hadn't cooked in over a week. Not that he expected her to — they weren't that kind of couple — but she used to leave things. Tea on the counter. A bowl of soup. A note with a smiley face beside his vitamins.
Now the kitchen was just a space with four walls.
He tried playing one of her favorite playlists on low volume one night. The one with old indie rock she claimed helped her "suture a soul."
It didn't help.
He scrolled through his phone. Messages from her were sparse. Cold. Clinical.
He had texted her twice that day.
"Finished the Mirza audit. Dinner?"
"You left your charger at home."
Both read. No reply.
⸻
The worst part?
He didn't know why.
Had he said something?
Done something?
She hadn't brought up a fight. There was no confrontation, no slammed door, no sarcastic remark to latch onto.
Just... distance.
A slow unraveling.
And somehow that was worse.
⸻
He saw her again — accidentally — in the staff elevator.
They were alone.
He thought about saying something.
He glanced at her reflection in the elevator's metallic door. She wasn't looking at him. Her hands were clenched around her tablet. Jaw tight. Tension in her shoulders.
He cleared his throat.
Nothing.
"Are you staying late again?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
She didn't turn.
"Likely."
The doors opened.
She walked out without another word.
⸻
Something inside him snapped that night.
Her side of the bed was untouched again. The pillow still perfectly propped, the sheets too smooth. No trace of her warmth, no lingering scent of jasmine and antiseptic and something only she ever carried.
The penthouse, with all its glass and sea views, felt hollow without her — like silence had crept into the walls.
He reached once, absently, to where her head might've been. Nothing but cold linen. It shouldn't matter, he told himself.
He liked space. He liked quiet.
But tonight, the emptiness felt louder than any argument. And for a moment, he hated how much he'd gotten used to her simply being there.
The apartment didn't feel like a home anymore.
Not without her coffee mug on the counter.
Not without the sound of her humming while reading lab reports in the living room.
Not without her sighing after brushing her hair too quickly and muttering something about split ends.
It shouldn't matter.
He hadn't wanted this marriage.
He had agreed because it made political sense, because she was reliable, because she never demanded more than he could give.
But now...
Now he'd grown used to her presence. To her silence and chaos. To the calm way she stitched herself into his routine like it had always been meant to fit.
And now that she was gone — not physically, but in all the ways that mattered — the apartment felt like a hollow echo.
⸻
He didn't name the feeling.
Wouldn't.
He didn't have time for emotions. Not when shareholders were waiting for his strategic forecast. Not when Aryav had gone dark again, Vihaan was acting strangely, and Aleena had returned like a storm he hadn't predicted.
And yet—
When he reached for his phone that night, it was her contact his thumb hovered over.
He didn't call.
He didn't text.
He just... stared at the screen.
And wondered when the silence had started feeling like grief.
⸻
"You're being irrational," he told himself.
"She needs space."
"She'll come around."
"You don't care that much."
And still —
His chest hurt in that strange, unfamiliar way that made him loosen his tie and rub his sternum like it might go away.
It didn't.
Not that night.
Not the one after.
And definitely not the next morning when he caught a glimpse of her across the parking lot, her hair tied back, her eyes tired, walking just a little too fast as if she couldn't stand to exist near him for even one more second.