Game Over

Episode:5

When Love Turns Cold

The next morning came, but the light didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like exposure—like the sun had come just to highlight every truth she tried to hide from herself.

Ajala moved through the house in silence. She made breakfast for the children, packed their bags, and ironed their uniforms. Her hands worked like muscle memory, but her mind was far from the kitchen.

She kept replaying that moment in the office—his face when he saw her. The lack of surprise. The calm in his posture. The way he simply looked away.

That wasn’t love.

That wasn’t guilt.

That wasn’t even a shame.

That was distance. Like a man who had already moved on emotionally.

And didn’t care if she found out.

When Wāsif finally walked into the living room, freshly showered and dressed for the day, she didn’t greet him. He didn’t greet her either.

They existed in the same space—but worlds apart.

She placed a tray in front of him. Toast. Eggs. Tea. Simple. Silent.

He began eating without a word.

Ajala sat across from him, her gaze steady. She was no longer crying. No longer shouting. But her silence carried weight.

After a few minutes, she broke it. “How long will this routine last?”

He didn’t stop chewing. Didn’t look up. “I don’t know.”

That reply landed like a slap.

“You don’t know?” she repeated.

He finally met her eyes. “I can’t give you an answer right now.”

“You can’t, or you won’t?” she asked, her voice low, firm.

He sipped his tea, trying to ignore the heat in her words. “Don’t push it.”

Ajala leaned back in her chair. “You know what hurts the most, Wāsif? You didn’t even try to lie. You didn’t deny what I saw. You just… let me walk away.”

“I didn’t stop you,” he admitted. “Because I didn’t want a scene in the office.”

“You didn’t want a scene,” she echoed bitterly. “But what about the scene in my heart?”

He didn’t respond.

“I’m not asking for explanations anymore. I’m not stupid. I’m asking if you even care.”

He looked at her, and for a second, something flickered in his eyes—regret? Guilt? Or just annoyance?

“I care,” he said plainly.

“No, you don’t. Not anymore. And I don’t need you to pretend.”

The children’s voices rang faintly from the upper floor. Their laughter pierced through the tension, reminding her that life outside this conversation was still moving.

She softened, only slightly.

“You know what’s strange?” she asked quietly. I used to love your silence. It made me feel safe. Now, it terrifies me.”

He stood up.

She didn’t stop him.

As he walked away, she whispered—not loud enough for him to hear, but loud enough for her heart to break again:

“I miss the man who used to look at me like I was home.”

Later that day, Ajala sat quietly across from Savera in the garden outside her apartment. The sun was beginning to dip, casting golden shadows across the ground, but neither of them seemed to notice. The tea between them had gone cold.

Savera had been unusually quiet, as if waiting for Ajala to speak first. But Ajala only stared ahead, her hands resting in her lap, eyes distant.

“You didn’t say anything on the phone,” Savera finally said. “I figured something had happened.”

Ajala gave a faint nod. “I saw him. Last night. At his office. With someone.”

Savera’s expression didn’t change. Maybe she had expected this moment. Maybe she had feared it too.

“Did he say anything?” she asked gently.

“No. He just looked at me. Then looked away.”

Ajala exhaled. “And that was enough.”

Savera was silent for a while, then said, “You know, Kamran used to do that too. Walk in and out of rooms like I didn’t exist. Raise his voice when I dared to ask questions. I stayed quiet because I thought... maybe that’s what love becomes after marriage.”

Ajala looked at her. “And now?”

“Now I know,” Savera said softly, “that silence isn’t peace. It’s punishment. Especially when it’s forced.”

Ajala looked down, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m scared, Savera. I don’t know who he is anymore. Or maybe… I never really knew.”

“You did,” Savera replied. We both did. But people change. And when they change without you, it feels like betrayal.”

“I thought love could survive anything,” Ajala said.

Savera smiled sadly. “Love can survive anything… except being taken for granted.”

A long pause stretched between them.

Ajala finally said, “He doesn’t yell much. He doesn’t hit. He doesn’t cheat—at least not that I can prove. But he makes me feel invisible. That’s worse. Because when someone hurts you and they don’t even realize it… That’s when you know they’ve stopped loving you.”

Savera reached over and gently took her hand. “You don’t have to prove you’re strong all the time. Sometimes being strong means knowing when to stop holding on.”

Ajala blinked slowly, her eyes glistening. “I don’t want to give up on us. But I don’t know if we even exist anymore.”

“You do,” Savera said, “but maybe not in the way you used to. Maybe now you exist in your memories of him… not in the man who comes home at night.”

Ajala nodded slowly, absorbing the truth.

Then she asked softly, “Do you think he still loves me?”

Savera didn’t answer right away. Then she said, “The real question is—do you still love the version of him that comes home to you now?”

That question settled over them like dusk.

Ajala didn’t reply.

Because deep down, she already knew the answer.