Mayi Ri

Chapter 16

The morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. Fakhir sat at the edge of his bed, his gaze fixed on the floor. The muffled sounds of laughter drifted from the kitchen, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within him.

He had always prided himself on his composure, but lately, that facade was crumbling. The sight of Ainy and Arsal together, their shared laughter, the ease of their interactions—it gnawed at him. He knew their history, their bond forged over years of studying together, but now, it felt like a threat.

He recalled the previous evening when he had entered the kitchen to find them engrossed in conversation, their heads bent over a notebook. Ainy's eyes had sparkled with amusement, a smile playing on her lips as she listened to Arsal. Fakhir had stood there, an outsider in his own home, the warmth of their connection excluding him.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. It wasn't just jealousy; it was the fear of losing something he hadn't fully grasped yet. His marriage to Ainy had been a decision influenced by family expectations and societal norms. They had shared moments of closeness, but now, he questioned the depth of their connection.

The door creaked open, and Ainy stepped in, her expression tentative. "Fakhir, breakfast is ready," she said softly.

He looked up, forcing a smile. "I'll join you in a bit."

She hesitated, sensing the distance in his demeanor. "Is everything okay?"

He nodded, avoiding her gaze. "Just tired. Didn't sleep well."

She lingered for a moment before nodding and retreating, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Fakhir leaned back, closing his eyes. The walls of their relationship were closing in, and he didn't know how to bridge the growing gap.

Later that day, Fakhir found himself in the study, attempting to focus on work. The door was slightly open, and he could hear Ainy and Arsal in the living room, their voices animated.

"Remember when we used to pull all-nighters before exams?" Arsal's voice was filled with nostalgia.

Ainy laughed. "And survive on endless cups of chai and biscuits."

Fakhir clenched his jaw, the words a painful reminder of the bond they shared. He felt like an intruder in his own life, watching from the sidelines as Ainy gravitated towards someone else.

He stood up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. The noise silenced the conversation in the living room. Moments later, Ainy appeared at the doorway.

"Fakhir, are you okay?"

He nodded curtly. "Just needed some air."

She looked at him, concern etched on her face. "You've been distant lately. Is there something you want to talk about?"

He hesitated, the words caught in his throat. He wanted to express his fears, his insecurities, but pride held him back.

"No, everything's fine," he replied, brushing past her.

The days after their nikkah unfold like a quiet drizzle—gentle, consistent, and almost forgettable, if not for the subtle chill it leaves behind.

At first, Ainy doesn't notice it. Or maybe she does, but she brushes it off. Fakhir has always been quiet, reserved. She told herself it was just the weight of exams, of responsibilities, of adapting. Their marriage wasn't sudden, exactly—but it wasn't expected either. Not for them.

She still remembers the nikkah day, how awkwardly he avoided her eyes as they sat side by side. Everyone else had been beaming—Sameena, Amma, even Arsal, teasing her under his breath—but Fakhir? He'd barely said a word. She thought he was nervous.

Now, she isn't so sure.

Ainy spends her days between books and cautious hope. She plans her routine carefully—when to study, when to rest, when to maybe, just maybe, catch him in the corridor or in the kitchen, and start a conversation. Sometimes she does. Sometimes he answers with polite nods, a faint smile that never quite reaches his eyes. Other times, she finds only his absence—a used cup by the sink, a jacket flung over the chair, a door gently closed behind him.

He isn't cruel. He never raises his voice or brushes her off. But his kindness feels practiced. Measured. Like someone fulfilling a duty rather than living a shared life.

Fakhir notices the changes too, but he convinces himself it's for the best. He knows what people think. That since the nikkah happened, things will fall into place. That time will do the rest. But time doesn't heal feelings that never bloomed. It only hides them deeper.

He tries to be present—he does. He asks Ainy how her exam prep is going, passes her the sugar when she makes tea, compliments her notes when they sit at the same table. But all of it feels like he's acting. And maybe that's the cruelest part.

Because Ainy is trying. She's trying so hard.

She smiles at him, even when he doesn't smile back. She asks him things, waits for his answers. She folds his laundry if she sees it lying around. She laughs at Arsal's jokes just a little louder when Fakhir is in the room, hoping he might look up, might say something.

And when he does... it never feels enough.

There's a growing space between them. Not physical—they still share the same home, still pass each other in the same narrow corridors—but emotional, silent, heavy. Like two people sitting at opposite ends of a bench, separated not by distance, but by all the words they're not saying.

One evening, Ainy enters the lounge, carrying her laptop and tea, only to find Fakhir already sitting there, scrolling on his phone.

Her heart lifts slightly. She hadn't seen him since breakfast.

"Hey," she says, placing her cup on the table.

He looks up. "Hey."

She takes the other end of the sofa, opens her laptop. The silence stretches.

"I was thinking of applying to this program," she begins, carefully. "It's for international students. Full scholarship."

Fakhir blinks. "Abroad?"

"Yeah. Maybe the UK. Or Canada."

He nods slowly, a beat of silence before he replies, "Sounds good."

That's it.

No questions. No curiosity. No 'What do you want to study?' or 'When will you apply?' Not even a 'How do you feel about leaving?' Just... "Sounds good."

Ainy nods too, pretending it's enough. Pretending his indifference isn't a bruise blooming quietly across her hope.

Later that night, when she's folding a shawl over her armchair, she pauses. She thinks about all the times she has reached for him—in tiny ways—and all the times he has pulled away without even realizing it.

She wonders if this is what it means to be married to someone who hasn't chosen you fully.

Because that's the truth, isn't it?

He married her, but he didn't choose her. Not the way people dream of being chosen.

Fakhir, in his room, stares at the ceiling. Arsal is asleep, breathing evenly on the other bed. The room is dark, quiet—too quiet for the noise in his head.

He keeps thinking about Amna.

Not because he misses her—he doesn't. That chapter closed the moment his parents told him about the proposal. He had ended things, told her it was over. She had been hurt, confused, but respectful. There were no fights. No drama. Just a quiet goodbye.

And yet, in his head, she lingers. Not as a person, but as a memory. A past life. A possibility.

He doesn't miss her. He misses the version of himself he was with her—relaxed, open, sure of what he wanted.

With Ainy, he isn't sure who he's supposed to be.

She's kind. Gentle. Smart. And slowly, painfully, she's breaking under his silence.

He sees it. Every day.

He sees it in the way her smile falters when he walks past her without a word. In the way she hesitates before speaking, unsure if he's even listening. In the way she looks at him like she's waiting for something—anything—that proves he sees her as more than just a responsibility.

But he doesn't know how to give her that. Not yet.

He's afraid that if he tries too hard, he'll ruin it. That if he opens up, it'll feel fake. Forced.

So instead, he chooses silence.

And silence, day by day, turns into distance.

Ainy begins to notice things.

How he avoids sitting too close.

How he never initiates conversation.

How he looks at his phone too often when they're in the same room.

How he always seems to leave just when she arrives.

It hurts. In small, invisible ways.

One evening, she finds him laughing at something on his phone. It's a rare sound, deep and familiar. She peeks over his shoulder. It's a photo Amna has shared —just a meme, something silly. But the way he smiles at it makes something sink inside her.

He still has a place for Amna. Maybe not in the way people think. But in the way that matters.

And Ainy—where is her place?

Is she still waiting to be chosen?

The night stretches on. She lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, eyes open.

She doesn't cry. Not yet. The pain isn't sharp enough. It's just a dull ache. A steady reminder that something isn't right.

And she doesn't know how to fix it.

Across the house, in the same stillness, Fakhir stares at the wall, wide awake.

He's been thinking about the look on Ainy's face earlier today. The flicker of disappointment she hadn't even tried to hide. He thinks about the silence at dinner, how she'd barely touched her food. How Arsal had tried to make her laugh, but her smile never reached her eyes.

He wants to ask her if she's okay.

But he doesn't.

Because he doesn't know what he'll say if she asks him the same.

Are you okay, Fakhir?

No. He's not.

But how do you explain that to someone who's doing everything right?

How do you tell her it's not her fault—but also not something you can fix?

So, the days pass.

And the silence grows.

And both of them, aching in their own ways, wait for the other to speak first.