The Bride He Never Wanted

Chapter 14. part 1 until 5

Chapter 14: What He Couldn’t Say

🌙 Part 1/5: His Presence, Her Distance

Qisya never expected her steps that morning to feel this heavy. Not because of physical fatigue, but because of the weight of Hariz’s presence still lingering in her mind. Ever since that night in the backyard—when he held her without saying a word, then disappeared without a trace—her heart had never felt the same.

She sat at the edge of the bed, facing the open window. The morning breeze gently brushed against her cheek. Her hair was tied loosely, and her eyes were swollen. Not from crying last night, but because she no longer knew how to cry.

Since returning from the village three days ago, Hariz hadn’t said much. He was there, but not really there. He walked past her, but didn’t stop. His gaze fell on her, but didn’t linger. And what hurt most—his voice. The voice that used to be cold and sharp had now turned soft, cautious—like he was afraid of breaking someone who was already cracked.

“Qisya, breakfast’s ready,” Aunt Dahlia called from downstairs. “Hariz is already at the table.”

Qisya inhaled deeply. That name. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to hear it. But every time it was spoken, something inside her stalled—like her heartbeat losing its rhythm.

She stood up, slowly walking to the door. Every step dragged along pieces of memory. She descended the stairs, and there—just like always—Hariz sat at the table, scrolling through his phone. A cup of coffee in hand, toast still steaming on his plate. He looked composed, wearing a navy blue button-up with perfectly styled hair, as if everything was fine.

Qisya took a seat across from him, silent.

“Morning,” Hariz finally said, voice soft.

She nodded faintly. No words.

There was a distance between them. Not just the physical space across the table—but something much wider. A silence filled with things never said… and things that could never be taken back.

⸻

Hariz glanced at her.

Qisya continued buttering her toast, as if that were the only thing that mattered in the world. Her face was calm, but he knew it was a mask. He had worn that same mask before—he recognized it instantly. She was hiding pain behind quiet gestures.

He wanted to say something. Anything. But his tongue was tied. Since when did he become this much of a coward?

“Tomorrow… I’ve got an early meeting. I’ll be out by seven,” he said at last, just to break the silence.

She only nodded. “Okay.”

And that was it.

Two words. Two people. Two hearts drifting apart—not because of hatred, but because of wounds left unattended.

⸻

The rest of the day passed like shadows.

Qisya stayed in her room under the pretense of working on her university journal, though all she really wrote was the same sentence over and over again:

“Don’t expect people to love you the way you love them.”

Her pen froze mid-sentence when she heard footsteps outside her door.

Hariz.

She knew that sound—slow, heavy, like someone burdened with words he couldn’t say.

She almost got up to open the door, but the voice in her head whispered louder:

What for? He won’t say anything. He won’t choose you.

The footsteps eventually faded away.

And with them… her heart.

⸻

That evening, it rained.

Qisya sat on the porch, hugging her knees. Hariz was in the garage, tinkering with something under the car hood. In silence, she glanced at him now and then. He looked calm, but there was a tension in his movements—like someone trying to fix more than just a machine.

“Why is it so hard to talk?” she whispered to herself. “If you feel… anything at all… just say it. I’m tired of guessing.”

And suddenly, as if he heard her, Hariz looked up—right at her.

Their eyes met. And for a second, the world held its breath.

But only for a second.

He looked away.

And Qisya knew—he wasn’t ready.

⸻

That night, the rain hadn’t stopped.

Qisya lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. The sound of raindrops tapping against the roof was oddly comforting, yet her heart was far from still.

A soft knock came at her door.

She sat up, walked slowly, and opened it.

No one was there.

Only a small package on the floor.

She bent down to pick it up. Inside—a small wooden box. And a folded note.

With trembling fingers, she opened the note:

“For the girl who loves everyone… except herself.”

No name.

But she knew.

It was from him.

Hariz.

🌙 Part 2/5: The Things He Hid in Silence

Hariz stared at the ceiling of his study, unable to sleep. The rain was still falling outside, quiet but persistent—like his thoughts.

The moment he dropped that note at her door, he wanted to turn back. He wanted to knock and say something. Anything. He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t as heartless as he seemed—that every silence between them wasn’t emptiness, but fear. Fear of breaking what little was left. Fear of not knowing how to fix what he never meant to destroy.

But he walked away.

Just like he always did.

Because he didn’t know what to do with feelings he never expected to have.

⸻

It was never supposed to be her.

The plan was simple. A marriage of convenience. Keep it distant. Keep it clean. Let the time pass. Then walk away.

But somewhere between the morning glances and shared silences… she got under his skin.

She made coffee without asking how he liked it—yet got it right every time. She arranged his files when he left them in a mess. She stayed up late, scribbling ideas in her journal, and once fell asleep at the table, her cheek pressed against her notes. He watched her, back then. From the hallway. For longer than he should have.

She was always just… there. Not demanding. Not dramatic. Just present.

And he hated how much he noticed.

Because it meant she mattered.

And he wasn’t supposed to care.

⸻

Earlier that afternoon, while pretending to fix the car, he caught her staring from the porch. Her eyes were glassy, distant—like someone who had given up trying to understand a puzzle that no longer made sense.

She looked tired. Not physically—but emotionally tired.

Tired of trying.

Tired of waiting.

Tired of not being chosen.

And that broke something in him.

He never meant to make her feel that way. He thought silence was safer. That if he didn’t open doors, she wouldn’t walk into rooms he hadn’t figured out how to light.

But maybe she already had.

And maybe it was too late to stop her.

⸻

Hariz rubbed his hands across his face. His heart ached in places he didn’t know could ache.

He stood up, walked toward the desk, and opened the drawer. Inside was a small collection of things he never admitted to keeping—pages torn from her notebooks when she left them lying around. Doodles. Quotes she wrote. Once, even a polaroid of her accidentally left between books.

He kept them.

He didn’t know why.

Maybe because they felt real. And he hadn’t felt real in a long time.

⸻

Down the hall, Qisya sat on her bed, still holding the note to her chest. The wild jasmine from the box sat on the table beside her, delicate and fragrant. Her fingers brushed across the petals gently, as if afraid it might fade too fast—just like everything else.

Tears welled in her eyes again, not out of pain, but confusion.

What did it mean?

The note. The flower. The timing.

Did it mean something? Or was it just pity?

No. Hariz didn’t do pity. He barely did kindness.

But this—this was something else.

Something softer. Something he didn’t say out loud.

And it terrified her more than all his silence.

Because a part of her wanted to hope.

⸻

The next morning came with an unusual stillness.

Qisya stepped out of the room early, wearing a soft beige blouse and a scarf loosely wrapped. Her steps felt lighter. Her heart still unsure, but not as heavy.

Downstairs, Hariz was already at the table.

He looked up.

For a second, his eyes lingered.

“You’re up early,” he said.

Qisya gave a small smile. “Didn’t sleep much.”

He nodded. “Me neither.”

That was all.

But it felt… different.

The air between them had shifted, just a little. Enough to feel. Not enough to hold.

⸻

Hariz stood, grabbing his coat.

“I’ll be back late today. There’s a dinner with the board.”

“Okay.”

He hesitated at the door.

Then turned. “Did you… get the note?”

She met his eyes.

“Yes.”

Silence.

He nodded once. “Good.”

And left.

Qisya watched him go, heart caught somewhere between confusion and comfort.

Because though he didn’t say the words—

He left a piece of himself behind.

In jasmine.

In ink.

In the silence that finally felt like it was trying to speak.

🌙 Part 3/5: The Space Between Two Hearts

The hours stretched long and slow after Hariz left. Qisya sat by the window, tracing raindrops that hadn’t yet dried from the glass, her mind spinning with silent thoughts. Her fingers still smelled faintly of jasmine. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. A message? A follow-up? Another note?

But the house remained still.

Only the echo of yesterday’s note pulsed in her chest.

“For the girl who loves everyone… except herself.”

Those words.

They had carved something raw and personal into her.

How did he know?

How did he see what no one else ever bothered to notice?

⸻

In her quiet, Qisya found herself remembering.

A few weeks ago, Hariz had fallen asleep on the couch. She had walked in with a tray of hot chocolate, only to stop when she saw him—his head leaning back, brows furrowed even in rest, as if he couldn’t fully surrender to peace.

She stood there for a long time, just watching.

And she remembered thinking: There’s a war in him. One that no one talks about.

She never told anyone. Never wrote it down.

But now, with that single sentence on that note, she realized…

Maybe he’d been watching her too.

⸻

That evening, she busied herself with old books and kitchen chores, trying not to overthink. But her heart kept drifting. Her mind refused to stay still. The space between them—between what was said and what was left unsaid—had grown louder than words.

And yet, when Aunt Dahlia popped her head into the kitchen, her tone was casual. “Oh, Hariz just texted. He said dinner’s cancelled. He’ll be home by eight.”

Qisya’s hand paused mid-wash.

Eight.

It was only half-past six.

Why did her heart react like this?

⸻

By seven-thirty, she had changed into something softer, simpler—a light peach kurung with a thin lace trim. Not because she was waiting.

Not exactly.

Maybe because for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t afraid to be seen.

She stood at the mirror. No lipstick. Just a slight pinch to her cheeks. A swipe of balm. Her hair fell in soft waves, not tied, not tamed.

There was still no message from him.

Still, she waited by the hall.

And when she finally heard the familiar engine outside, her heart skipped—not with giddy joy, but anxious calm.

⸻

Hariz stepped into the house quietly.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up. His tie slightly loose. There was a tiredness in his posture, but his eyes searched the hallway like they were looking for something familiar.

And then he saw her.

Standing not far from the staircase, arms folded, face unreadable.

He paused.

Their eyes met.

And the silence returned.

But it wasn’t cold this time.

It was thick with meaning.

With hesitation.

With questions neither dared to ask.

⸻

“Dinner’s still warm,” Qisya said, finally.

“I already ate.”

“Oh.”

She looked away.

He took a step closer.

“Thank you… for reading the note.”

Her gaze lifted. “You left it at my door. Of course I’d read it.”

He nodded once. “Still. I wasn’t sure if you’d… want to.”

There was a pause.

“I did,” she said softly. “I read it more than once.”

Hariz’s jaw clenched. He looked like he wanted to say something else—but didn’t.

“I don’t know how to say things properly, Qisya,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“I… I wasn’t good at any of this. I’m still not.”

“I know.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

“But I’m trying.”

⸻

Something in her eyes shimmered. Not quite tears. Not quite a smile.

“Then stop running,” she whispered.

His breath caught.

“Stop disappearing every time something feels real. Stop pretending you’re not scared when you are. And stop thinking I’m waiting for you to be perfect.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know how.

But his eyes… they softened.

Like something inside him cracked—finally—and light started to spill through.

He took another step.

Only a few feet separated them now.

“I’m not good with flowers either,” he said suddenly. “I Googled what jasmine meant before I bought it.”

Qisya blinked. “You did?”

He nodded. “It said… ‘unspoken love’.”

Silence.

And then…

Qisya laughed softly.

It was the first time in days.

“I didn’t expect that from you.”

“I didn’t expect you to matter,” he replied quietly.

Her laughter died slowly.

The air between them trembled.

But neither moved away.

Not this time.

🌙 Part 4/5: All the Words Left in His Eyes

The space between them no longer felt cold—it pulsed with tension. Not the painful kind, but the kind that made your breath catch and your chest ache with everything unsaid.

Qisya stood still, heart pounding like it wanted to run—but not away. She could feel her pulse in her throat, could hear the silence whispering louder than any words. Her eyes stayed locked on his.

“You didn’t expect me to matter?” she finally asked, her voice barely a breath.

Hariz inhaled slowly.

“No,” he admitted. “But you did.”

Her throat tightened.

“Since when?”

He looked down for a second, then lifted his gaze back to her. His eyes—no longer guarded—were raw, conflicted, aching.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe… when you cried quietly that night in the car, thinking I didn’t notice.”

Qisya froze.

He remembered that?

“Or maybe when you made my black coffee wrong for the first time… and blamed yourself like it was a crime.”

A small, surprised smile tugged at her lips.

Hariz stepped closer.

“Maybe it was when you defended me to your aunt when you didn’t have to… or when you stayed up for my fever, even after I yelled at you the night before.”

He was right in front of her now. A breath away.

“Or maybe,” he whispered, “it was when I saw the way you looked at me. Like I was worth loving, even when I didn’t love myself.”

The tears came this time.

No warning.

No resistance.

Just a soft, broken sob escaping her lips as her shoulders trembled.

“I never asked for anything from you, Hariz…” she whispered. “I just wanted to be seen.”

“I know.”

He reached up.

And for the first time… he touched her.

Not like before. Not with hesitation. Not by accident.

But intentionally.

His hand brushed her cheek, wiping the tear gently with the back of his finger.

And his voice—finally—broke.

“I saw you,” he said hoarsely. “I just didn’t know what to do about it.”

⸻

She looked up at him then, eyes red and glistening.

“Then say it.”

He blinked. “Say what?”

“Whatever you’re hiding behind that silence.”

Hariz’s hand dropped to his side. He took a shaky breath.

“You want the truth?”

“Yes.”

He struggled for a moment, as if the words clawed up from a place he rarely opened.

“I didn’t just avoid you because I didn’t care,” he said slowly. “I avoided you because you made me feel too much. Because you reminded me I could still feel. And I’ve spent years trying not to.”

His voice cracked. “You saw parts of me I didn’t want anyone to see.”

“You think that’s weakness?” Qisya whispered.

He nodded once. “Yes.”

“Then you don’t know what love is.”

That silenced him.

But she didn’t stop.

“Love doesn’t wait for you to be ready. It doesn’t need you to be perfect. It just asks that you stay… even when you’re scared.”

Hariz looked down.

“I’ve been scared my whole life.”

She stepped closer now.

This time, she was the one who closed the distance.

“Then stay anyway.”

Their breaths mingled. Rain hit the windows outside like soft music, but inside—it was just them.

Two people.

Two broken pasts.

One unspoken truth between them.

⸻

“I don’t know how to love,” Hariz murmured.

Qisya took his hand, slowly.

“You already do. You just don’t know you’re doing it.”

He held her gaze, stunned by her certainty. By her kindness.

By her faith in him.

And something in him gave in.

All the walls. The years of control. The fear of softness.

They crumbled.

And he pulled her into him—arms wrapping tight around her small frame, his breath ragged against her shoulder.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

Because this time, his silence wasn’t a wall.

It was a confession.

And Qisya—she finally cried in peace.

🌙 Part 5/5: The Fire That Lit Too Late

The rain had stopped.

The sky outside was still grey, but calm—like the world had cried everything it needed to, and now it could rest.

Qisya had fallen asleep with the faint scent of Hariz still lingering on her scarf, her pillow damp with the warmth of silent tears that didn’t feel like sadness anymore.

They had stood in the living room for what felt like forever. Saying nothing. Just holding on.

It wasn’t a dramatic reconciliation. No fiery kiss. No promises.

But it was real.

And for her—real was enough.

⸻

The next morning arrived quietly.

Soft light crept through the blinds, warming the room inch by inch. A bird chirped outside, just once. The air held that gentle stillness after a storm—where everything feels more fragile, more sacred.

Qisya stirred under her blanket, eyelids fluttering open.

And then she saw it.

On the small wooden nightstand beside her bed.

A flower.

Small. White. Delicate.

Wild jasmine.

Her favourite.

Her heart skipped.

She sat up slowly, the morning sun catching the edges of the petals. Her fingers reached out as if in disbelief, brushing lightly against the softness of the bloom.

And then… she saw the folded note beneath it.

Her breath caught.

She picked it up carefully, as if afraid the moment would vanish if she moved too fast.

The handwriting was familiar now. Still sharp, still slightly slanted—but this time, gentler. Vulnerable.

She unfolded it with trembling hands.

“For the girl who still has the strength to love even when she’s tired.

– H.”

Qisya’s eyes welled.

But the tears didn’t sting this time.

They fell with grace. Silently. Slowly.

And for the first time in a long, long while…

They didn’t hurt.

They healed.

She held the note to her chest, her fingers gripping the paper like it was the only proof that he had finally—finally—seen her.

Not with his eyes.

But with his heart.

⸻

Hariz didn’t say the words she longed to hear.

Not yet.

But the flower whispered it for him.

And the ink bled it quietly into her soul.

And sometimes…

That’s how love begins.

In silence.

In slow mornings.

In the fire that lit too late—but still, lit all the same.