In the Quiet Between Us

Chapter 2

By the time Razen discovered that Aysteia could argue about practically anything, they had already become friends.

Not best friends. Not the sort of friends who exchanged secrets at midnight or knew every detail of each other's lives.

They were simply friends who had grown accustomed to each other's presence.

Their offices were close enough that avoiding one another would have required a deliberate effort, and neither had any particular reason to make that effort. Razen would stop by to talk to Aysteia's colleagues, Aysteia would occasionally wander into his department to follow up on something concerning the building, and their conversations gradually became a familiar part of the working day.

Sometimes they talked for five minutes.

Sometimes an ordinary question turned into a twenty-minute argument that neither of them had intended to have.

And sometimes Razen would come by looking for his friend, only to find Aysteia sitting at the information desk with her phone in hand, reading so intently that he would have to say her name twice before she noticed him.

He found that particularly amusing.

"Aysteia."

Nothing.

"Ays."

Still nothing.

He leaned slightly over the counter.

"Aysteia, are you alive?"

She startled, nearly dropping her phone.

"PUTANG INA!"

Razen burst out laughing.

Aysteia pressed a hand to her chest, glaring at him.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I've been calling you."

"Then call properly!"

"I said your name three times!"

"And I was reading!"

"Clearly."

She narrowed her eyes.

He grinned.

"Good morning to you, too."

"Go away."

"Missed you."

"You're irritating."

"And yet, here I am."

She rolled her eyes and returned to her phone, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

Razen was learning that there were several ways to get along with Aysteia. The easiest was to be straightforward. The second easiest was to make her laugh. The most dangerous was to say something she believed was factually incorrect and then insist on defending it.

He had discovered the third method quite by accident.

It had happened during one of their lunch breaks, when a casual discussion about a news story had somehow turned into an argument about whether people were obligated to forgive someone who had wronged them.

Razen, who was taking his master's degree in law, had a habit of examining arguments from every possible angle. He liked testing assumptions, identifying inconsistencies, and asking questions that made people reconsider what they had just said.

He didn't necessarily argue because he wanted to win.

He simply enjoyed the process.

Unfortunately for him, Aysteia was not the sort of person who appreciated having her opinions dismantled for recreational purposes.

"People should be given the opportunity to explain themselves," Razen had said.

"They can explain themselves all they want. That doesn't mean you have to accept their explanation."

"I didn't say you had to accept it."

"Then what's your point?"

"My point is that there might be circumstances you don't know about."

"And my point is that circumstances don't erase consequences."

"You're making it sound as though context doesn't matter."

"Context matters. It just doesn't automatically excuse people."

Razen leaned back in his chair, smiling.

"You're assuming the person acted with bad intentions."

"No, I'm saying that even if they didn't intend to hurt someone, they can still hurt someone."

"That's a different argument."

"Because you're making a different argument!"

Their colleagues had gradually stopped eating to listen.

Razen was enjoying himself.

Aysteia was not.

"You know what?" she said eventually, putting down her spoon. "Fine. You're right."

He blinked.

She waved a hand at him.

"Congratulations. You're right. You win. Happy?"

Razen laughed.

"You're giving up?"

"I'm giving up on this conversation."

"Because you can't defend your position?"

"Because you're going to keep talking until you hear what you want to hear, and I have rice to finish."

The table erupted in laughter.

Razen shook his head, still smiling.

"That's not how debate works."

"Then debate with someone who gets paid to listen to you."

She picked up her spoon again.

For several seconds, he watched her eat with the satisfied expression of a woman who had decided that the discussion was beneath her.

Then he asked, "So you're admitting I'm right?"

Aysteia slowly looked up.

"Razen."

"Yes?"

"Do you want me to throw this spoon at you?"

He laughed so hard that one of his colleagues had to pat him on the back.

After that, he made it his personal mission to discover how long he could argue with her before she decided he was no longer worth the effort.

The answer varied.

Sometimes she would defend her position passionately, explaining every detail with the confidence of someone who had thoroughly considered the matter.

Other times, she would listen to him for a while, grow increasingly irritated, and abruptly decide that the conversation had become pointless.

She had a particular dislike for arguments that went in circles.

Aysteia didn't mind disagreement. She could respect someone who held a different opinion, provided they were willing to explain their reasoning honestly.

What irritated her was the feeling that some people weren't interested in understanding her at all. They wanted to be right. They wanted the final word. They wanted to leave the conversation feeling victorious, even if nothing had actually been resolved.

Once she recognized that pattern, she lost interest.

"Think whatever you want," she would say, sometimes with a wave of her hand. "I don't care anymore."

Razen knew better than to believe her entirely.

She still cared about the subject. He could see it in the way her jaw tightened and the way she muttered under her breath after supposedly ending the conversation.

But she had reached her limit.

And once she decided someone wasn't listening, she would rather be annoyed in peace than spend another half hour trying to make herself understood.

Razen found the habit entertaining.

He also, occasionally, found it infuriating.

"You can't just end a discussion because you don't like where it's going," he told her one afternoon.

Aysteia stared at him.

"Watch me."

And then she walked away.

He laughed.

She flipped him off without turning around.

Their friendship, he decided, was going to be a very interesting experience.

What surprised Razen was how different Aysteia became when someone came to her with a genuine problem.

The woman who threatened to throw spoons at him over a lunch-table argument could become remarkably patient when someone needed help.

He saw it often enough at the information desk.

An employee would approach her with a complaint, a visitor would ask for directions, or a colleague would come to her with a problem they didn't know how to resolve.

Aysteia would put her phone away.

She would listen.

Not the distracted sort of listening people did while waiting for their turn to speak, but the kind that required attention. She asked questions to understand what had happened, clarified details, and considered what could realistically be done.

She didn't automatically tell people what they wanted to hear.

If someone had made a mistake, she said so. If a problem couldn't be fixed immediately, she explained why. If she didn't know the answer, she would find someone who did rather than pretending otherwise.

And if someone was upset, she didn't immediately dismiss their feelings just because she could see the situation from another perspective.

She took their concerns seriously.

Razen once watched a colleague approach her in a panic over a problem involving a document that had been sent to the wrong office.

The woman was visibly distressed, convinced she would get into trouble.

Aysteia let her explain the situation, then asked to see the messages and documents involved.

After checking the details, she explained what had happened and helped her identify the appropriate person to contact.

"Okay," Aysteia said. "First, stop panicking. We need to fix the problem, and you can't do that if you're too busy imagining every possible disaster."

"But what if they blame me?"

"Then you explain what happened honestly. Don't invent excuses, don't point fingers, and don't admit to things you didn't do. Just explain the facts and what you're doing to correct the mistake."

The woman nodded, looking calmer.

"And Aysteia?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

Aysteia smiled.

"You're welcome. Message me if you need help with the follow-up."

When the woman left, Razen approached the desk.

"So you do know how to be nice."

Aysteia looked at him.

"Excuse me?"

"I thought you only knew how to threaten people."

"That's because you insist on irritating me."

"I'm a law student. It's my responsibility to challenge people."

"No, it's your responsibility to study law. Nobody hired you to be a public nuisance."

He laughed.

But he had noticed something.

Aysteia was not generally impatient with people. She was impatient with people who made her feel as though she was wasting her time.

There was a difference.

She could be blunt, occasionally foul-mouthed, and remarkably stubborn. But when someone genuinely needed her help, she gave them her attention without making them feel foolish for asking.

It was one of the reasons her colleagues trusted her.

They might complain about her temper when she was annoyed, but they knew they could approach her when something mattered.

Razen was beginning to understand why.

Their conversations eventually moved beyond work.

It happened gradually, as most friendships did.

A question about an assignment became a discussion about education. A complaint about traffic became a conversation about where they wanted to live someday. A joke about married life turned into a discussion about relationships.

The first time Razen mentioned his girlfriend, he did so casually.

They were standing near the corridor outside their offices, waiting for a colleague who had gone to retrieve a document.

"You're going out later?" Aysteia asked when he mentioned that he would be unavailable after work.

"Yeah. Dinner with my girlfriend."

Aysteia nodded.

"Nice. Where?"

"Still deciding."

"Let her choose. It's safer."

Razen laughed.

"Why is it safer?"

"Because if you choose somewhere she doesn't like, you'll spend the entire evening hearing about it."

"That sounds like you've had experience."

"I have eyes. I've seen things."

"Very scientific."

"I'm a psychology graduate. Everything I say is scientific."

He gave her a look.

"That's absolutely not how that works."

"Do you want to argue about it?"

"Actually—"

"No."

She pointed at him.

"Don't start."

He laughed, raising both hands in surrender.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he asked, "How about you? Do you have a boyfriend?"

Aysteia looked at him as though he had asked whether she had a functioning brain.

"Yes."

"Really?"

She narrowed her eyes.

"What do you mean, really?"

"I mean, you've never mentioned him."

"Why would I mention him?"

"I don't know. Most people talk about their partners."

"Most people talk too much."

Razen laughed.

"How long have you been together?"

"Seven years."

This time, his expression changed.

"Seven years?"

"Mhm."

"Seven?"

"Do you need me to spell it out?"

He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head.

"That's a long time."

"It is."

"Since you were sixteen?"

"Seventeen, I think. Around that age."

"And you're still together?"

She gave him a flat look.

"Obviously, Razen. I just said I have a boyfriend."

He laughed again.

"Okay, okay. I'm asking because that's a serious relationship."

Aysteia shrugged, but there was a small, almost unconscious softness in her expression.

"It is."

There was no embarrassment in the way she said it. No hesitation, no attempt to downplay the relationship.

Seven years was a significant portion of her life. She had grown up alongside this man, passed through different stages of adulthood with him, and become accustomed to the idea that he would be part of whatever came next.

Razen understood that feeling.

He had been with his own girlfriend for years, too.

Not quite as long as Aysteia had been with hers, but long enough that the relationship was woven into his understanding of his future.

"How long have you been with your girlfriend?" Aysteia asked.

"Almost five years."

"Oh."

He tilted his head.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"You're judging me."

"I'm not."

"You said 'oh' in a very judgmental way."

"Maybe your relationship is simply less impressive."

He laughed.

"You're unbelievable."

"And yet, I'm still right here."

They exchanged amused looks.

Then Razen said, "Honestly, I thought you were single."

"Why?"

"You don't talk about him."

"That doesn't mean I'm single. It means I don't talk about him at work."

"Fair enough."

"And you don't talk about your girlfriend much, either."

"Maybe I don't talk about her at work."

"Exactly."

He grinned.

For the first time, they recognized something familiar in each other.

Not simply the fact that they were both in relationships, but that their relationships existed beyond the daily conversations of the office. Neither needed to make their partner the subject of every interaction. Neither needed to explain their commitment to every person who happened to ask.

They had their own lives.

Their own people.

And their own reasons for keeping certain things private.

After that, their conversations about relationships became more frequent.

Not every day, and not always in detail.

Sometimes Razen would mention something his girlfriend had said, and Aysteia would give him her opinion. Sometimes Aysteia would complain about something her boyfriend had done, and Razen would offer a different perspective.

He liked to analyze things.

She liked to get to the point.

It made for interesting conversations.

One afternoon, Razen was telling her about an argument he had had with his girlfriend.

"I don't understand why she got upset," he said. "I told her I had work to finish, so I couldn't go out."

Aysteia continued typing.

"Did you tell her beforehand?"

"Tell her what?"

"That you had work to finish."

"I told her when she asked."

"When did she ask?"

"That afternoon."

Aysteia stopped typing.

She turned toward him.

"Razen."

"What?"

"Did you already know about the work before she asked?"

He paused.

"Yes."

"And you didn't tell her?"

"I didn't think I needed to. I wasn't sure how long it would take."

"Then why didn't you tell her you weren't sure?"

He frowned.

"Because I wasn't sure."

"Okay, but you could've said that."

"I don't see why that's a problem."

"Because she might've spent the day thinking you were going out together, only to find out at the last minute that you weren't."

"But I didn't promise her anything."

Aysteia stared at him.

He stared back.

Then she sighed.

"Okay. Fine."

Razen smiled.

"You're giving up already?"

"I'm not giving up. I'm choosing peace."

"Because you know I'm right."

"Because I don't have the energy to explain basic consideration to a man pursuing a master's degree in law."

He burst out laughing.

"That is not an argument!"

"Then take me to court."

She returned to her work.

He was still laughing when he left.

But the conversation stayed with him.

Aysteia didn't necessarily think he was a bad boyfriend. She simply believed that people should consider how their actions affected others, even when they hadn't technically broken a promise.

To her, a relationship wasn't a courtroom where every action had to be evaluated according to the strictest possible interpretation of what had been agreed upon.

It was a relationship.

You paid attention to the person you loved. You communicated. You considered their feelings without automatically assuming they were entitled to everything they wanted.

And you tried to be fair.

Razen didn't always agree with her conclusions, but he liked that she challenged him.

She didn't flatter him because he was handsome, financially comfortable, or pursuing a law degree. If she thought his reasoning was flawed, she told him.

If she agreed with him, she said so.

If she had no intention of continuing the conversation, she made that clear, too.

Their friendship became easy in a way neither had anticipated.

They could talk about their partners without feeling that every disagreement had to become a judgment on the relationship itself.

They could admit that they were annoyed, confused, or occasionally hurt without immediately concluding that something was fundamentally wrong.

And because both had been in long-term relationships, neither needed to explain why a small disagreement could feel significant when it involved someone they loved.

They understood the weight of familiarity.

The comfort of routine.

The strange vulnerability of allowing someone to become so much a part of your life that their actions could affect your entire day.

They were friends.

Good friends, increasingly.

And neither of them saw any reason to make that more complicated than it was.

The morning Aysteia found out about the kiss, the building seemed unusually loud.

Phones rang. Office doors opened and closed. Someone was laughing in the corridor. A printer somewhere down the hall was producing a sound that suggested it had been suffering for years.

Everything was normal.

Except Aysteia.

Razen noticed the difference before he even reached his workstation.

She was sitting at the information desk, facing the corridor, her hands resting near her keyboard.

Her phone lay beside her.

That alone was unusual.

Normally, if she had a spare moment, she would be reading something on it. She had a talent for disappearing into a story even while sitting in the middle of a busy office.

Today, she wasn't reading.

She was staring at something in front of her.

Not at a person.

Not at the computer.

Just somewhere beyond the desk, her eyes fixed on a point that didn't appear to have anything particularly interesting about it.

Her expression was blank.

But it wasn't the relaxed blankness of someone daydreaming.

There was something wrong with it.

Razen slowed as he passed.

"Ays?"

She didn't respond.

He glanced at her colleagues.

One of them looked at him, then quickly returned to her work.

Another was speaking to someone in a low voice.

Razen frowned slightly.

He had seen Aysteia angry. He had seen her exhausted, irritated, amused, and so thoroughly engrossed in her phone that she had nearly cursed him into another dimension for interrupting her.

He had never seen her like this.

She seemed present enough to do her work. When a visitor approached, she turned toward him, listened to his inquiry, and gave him the appropriate directions.

Her voice was normal.

Her answers were clear.

She even smiled politely.

Then the visitor left, and the expression disappeared.

She returned to staring at nothing.

Razen continued to his department, but he found himself looking back.

Something had happened.

He was certain of it.

He simply didn't know what.

By midmorning, the entire office seemed to have noticed Aysteia's mood.

Her colleagues were unusually careful around her.

People who would ordinarily approach her desk to chat about anything and everything seemed content to remain where they were. Even her closest friend, who was usually capable of making Aysteia laugh over the smallest things, spoke to her more gently than usual.

Aysteia didn't snap at anyone.

That was almost the worst part.

She continued working.

She answered inquiries. She followed up on maintenance requests. She checked documents, responded to messages, and did everything expected of her.

There were no outbursts, no slammed drawers, no dramatic declarations that everyone should leave her alone.

She simply seemed to have withdrawn into herself.

Her body was at work.

Her mind appeared to be somewhere else entirely.

Razen tried to concentrate on the documents in front of him.

He lasted approximately twenty minutes.

Then he got up, walked across the corridor, and stopped beside the information desk.

Aysteia was looking at the computer.

He wasn't convinced she was actually seeing it.

"Hey."

She turned her head.

"Hmm?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

The answer came too quickly.

Razen looked at her.

She looked back.

Neither spoke for a moment.

Then she turned to her screen again.

He could have left it there. They were friends, but not every friendship required someone to disclose everything that was wrong with them. He wasn't entitled to an explanation simply because he had noticed she was upset.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had happened that morning, and whatever it was had hurt her more than she wanted anyone to know.

"Did something happen?" he asked.

Aysteia's fingers paused over the keyboard.

For a moment, she seemed to consider whether she wanted to answer.

Then she exhaled.

"My boyfriend kissed another girl."

Razen went still.

"What?"

She continued looking at the screen.

"He kissed another girl."

There was no tremor in her voice. No dramatic emphasis. She said it as though she were informing him that the air-conditioning upstairs had stopped working again.

But Razen had known her long enough to recognize that something was terribly wrong.

"When?"

"Recently."

"How did you find out?"

"Someone told me. Then I asked him."

"And?"

"He admitted it."

Razen pulled a chair closer to the desk but didn't sit down.

"What did he say?"

Aysteia gave a small, humorless laugh.

"That it was a mistake."

He said nothing.

She finally looked at him.

"Apparently, he wasn't thinking."

Razen's jaw tightened.

Seven years.

He knew what seven years meant to her. He knew how casually she spoke about her relationship only because she didn't feel the need to announce it to everyone around her. He knew that she had been with this man through years of growing up, changing, and making decisions about their future.

This wasn't some brief relationship that had ended after a few months.

This was someone she had spent a substantial part of her life loving.

And he had kissed someone else.

"Are you going to talk to him about it?" Razen asked carefully.

Aysteia looked at him for a long moment.

"I already did."

"And what do you want to do?"

She looked back at her computer.

"I don't know yet."

It was the first answer she had given him that sounded genuinely uncertain.

Razen pulled the chair out and sat down.

He didn't try to tell her what she should do. He didn't immediately declare that she ought to leave her boyfriend or insist that seven years meant the relationship deserved another chance.

He simply stayed.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then one of their colleagues approached the desk, holding a folder.

"I heard about what happened," the woman said gently.

Aysteia looked up.

The woman hesitated before continuing.

"But, you know, sometimes these things happen. Men make mistakes. If it was just a kiss, maybe you can still work things out."

Another colleague, who had apparently been listening, nodded.

"Exactly. It's not like he had a whole affair. Guys can be stupid sometimes, especially when they're drinking. If he apologized, maybe it's something you can fix."

Aysteia stared at them.

For the first time that morning, her expression changed.

Not into anger.

Not exactly.

It was something colder.

A look of profound disbelief, as though she had just watched someone confidently explain something so absurd that she wasn't sure how to respond.

The first woman shifted uncomfortably.

"I'm just saying, Ays. You've been together for so long. Seven years. That's not something you throw away over one mistake."

Aysteia's eyes remained on her.

"Cheating is cheating."

The woman blinked.

"I'm not saying what he did was right—"

"Then why are you explaining to me why I should accept it?"

Her voice wasn't loud.

That made it worse.

The woman opened her mouth, then closed it.

Aysteia leaned back in her chair.

"I understand that people make mistakes. I understand that relationships aren't perfect. I understand that sometimes people do things without thinking about the consequences."

She paused.

"But he knew he had a girlfriend. He knew he was in a relationship. He knew what he was doing when he kissed another woman."

"Maybe it didn't mean anything to him," someone offered.

Aysteia looked at her.

"That doesn't make it mean nothing to me."

Silence settled around the desk.

She continued, her voice steady.

"You keep saying it's just a kiss. It's just one mistake. It's just something that can be fixed. But you're talking about it as if the only thing that matters is how serious you think the act was."

She glanced down at her hands.

"I don't know if I'm going to stay with him. I haven't decided that yet. But I'm not going to sit here and pretend that what he did was acceptable just because other people think it's something a man can get away with."

Nobody answered.

Aysteia looked back at the computer.

"And I don't want to hear that it's normal for men to cheat. If you think it's normal, that's your business. Don't make it my responsibility to accept it."

The woman holding the folder murmured something about only trying to help.

Aysteia gave a short nod.

"I know."

It was the end of the conversation.

Not because she had run out of things to say.

Because she had said what she needed to say, and she knew that continuing would only turn her pain into an office debate.

She had no intention of defending her right to be hurt.

Her colleagues gradually dispersed, exchanging uncertain glances.

Razen remained in his chair.

He had heard every word.

He watched Aysteia return to her work, her expression once again settling into that strange, distant stillness.

She hadn't cried.

She hadn't shouted.

She hadn't asked anyone to take her side.

She had simply refused to let them explain away something that had hurt her.

And somehow, that made him more concerned than if she had broken down in front of everyone.

"Ays," he said quietly.

She kept her eyes on the screen.

"Hmm?"

"You don't have to decide what to do today."

Her fingers stilled.

He continued before she could dismiss him.

"You don't have to figure out the whole relationship right now. You can take some time to think."

She looked at him.

For a moment, the composure slipped.

Not entirely. Aysteia was still Aysteia, and she was unlikely to start crying simply because someone had offered her a little kindness.

But Razen saw the exhaustion underneath her expression.

"I know," she said.

Her voice was quieter now.

"I just hate this."

He nodded.

"I know."

"No, I mean..." She stopped, pressing her lips together.

For the first time that morning, she seemed to struggle to find the right words.

"I hate that I have to think about it. I hate that this is even something I have to deal with."

Razen said nothing.

She looked down at the desk.

"Seven years, Razen."

He felt something tighten in his chest.

"I know."

"Seven years. And now I'm supposed to sit here and figure out whether kissing another girl is something I can forgive."

Her laugh was small and empty.

"I never thought I'd have to think about something like this."

Razen understood that.

He understood that sometimes the worst part of betrayal wasn't simply the act itself. It was the sudden realization that the person you had trusted to help build your future had introduced a problem into your life that you had never expected to face.

A problem you couldn't solve by working harder, being more patient, or making a better plan.

A problem that existed because someone else had made a choice.

"You're allowed to be upset," he said.

Aysteia looked at him.

"I know."

"And you're allowed to take your time."

"I know, Razen."

He nodded.

He wasn't going to tell her what to do.

He wasn't going to turn her pain into a lesson or insist that everything would work out for the best.

He simply stayed beside her for another minute.

Then he stood.

"Have you eaten?"

She stared at him.

"What?"

"Have you eaten anything today?"

She looked almost offended by the question.

"Razen, my boyfriend kissed another girl."

"I'm aware."

"And you're asking if I've eaten?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it's almost lunchtime, and I know you get a headache when you don't eat."

She stared at him for another moment.

Then she looked away.

"You're so annoying."

"I've been told."

He picked up the empty paper cup beside her keyboard.

"Do you want me to bring you something?"

"No."

"Okay."

He started to leave.

"Razen."

He turned.

She was still looking at her computer.

"Thank you."

The words were quiet enough that he almost missed them.

He gave her a small nod.

"Anytime."

Then he returned to his department.

That afternoon, Aysteia did what she had always done when life became difficult.

She continued.

She completed her tasks, answered questions, and followed up on the maintenance concerns that had accumulated throughout the morning. She smiled when she needed to smile and spoke when someone required her attention.

From a distance, she looked perfectly functional.

But every now and then, Razen would glance toward the information desk and find her staring into the distance again.

He couldn't know what she was thinking.

Perhaps she was remembering the seven years they had spent together.

Perhaps she was replaying the conversation with her boyfriend, wondering whether there was something she had missed or something she should have noticed earlier.

Perhaps she was imagining the future she had once taken for granted and trying to understand what it would look like now.

He didn't know.

And he didn't ask.

Near the end of the working day, he passed her desk once more.

She was packing her things.

"Going home?" he asked.

"Unless you know somewhere else I can go."

He smiled faintly.

"Unfortunately, no."

"Tragic."

They were quiet for a moment.

Then Razen asked, "Are you going to be okay?"

Aysteia slung her bag over her shoulder.

She considered the question.

"Eventually."

It wasn't a cheerful answer.

It wasn't an assurance that everything was fine.

It was simply the most honest thing she could say.

Razen nodded.

"Okay."

She looked at him.

"Don't look at me like that."