Game Over

Episode:6

The Mask He Wore

Ajala stood at the kitchen sink, her hands immersed in soapy water, scrubbing a pan she didn’t remember using. It was late evening again. The house was quiet except for the distant chatter of the kids in their room and the soft hum of the refrigerator.

Wāsif had just come home.

He walked past her, loosened his tie, and placed his phone on the table like a routine gesture-mechanical, practiced, cold. He said nothing. She didn’t either.

But her heart thudded against her ribs. The silence between them had turned into an invisible wall neither of them wanted to climb.

Moments later, he was watching television. A football match. His eyes were on the screen, but Ajala knew his mind was somewhere else—maybe with her, maybe not.

She dried her hands and walked over, switching off the TV with a sharp click.

He looked up, confused. “What are you doing?”

“I’m bored,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

“Can we not do this now?” he replied, trying to grab the remote again.

“No,” she said, holding it tight. “We are always ‘not doing this now.’”

He sat back, frustrated. “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”

She took a deep breath. “What do you like about me?”

“What?”

“You heard me. What do you like about me? As a woman. As your wife.”

He stared at her, as if trying to understand if this was a trap.

Finally, he smirked. “You make good food. Keep the house clean. Handle the kids. Isn’t that enough?”

Her heart sank. “So I’m just a house manager to you?”

He shrugged. “That’s what wives are, aren’t they?”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s all I am to you?”

He leaned forward. “You want the truth? You’ve become too serious, Ajala. Too sensitive. I can’t joke with you. Can’t laugh around you. You overthink everything.”

“I used to laugh,” she whispered. “You used to make me.”

“Well, you stopped. Maybe that’s not my fault.”

She took a step back. His words cut deeper than any lie. They were laced with resentment—and finality.

“You know what I loved most about you?” he said, voice calmer now. “You were playful. Back in university, you used to throw cushions at me, tease me, and talk nonstop. You weren’t like this.”

“And what am I now?” she asked.

“A storm,” he said simply.

She didn’t flinch. “Then why do you still stay in the house of a storm?”

He had no answer. Just like always.

“I may be a storm,” she said, “but you… You’re a drought. You dry up every emotion that tries to survive.”

He stood, grabbing his phone. “We’ll talk later.”

“No, we won’t,” she said, tears finally reaching her eyes. “Because every time we try, you leave.”

He paused at the door. “I’m just tired.”

She didn’t stop him.

She just whispered to herself, “Then maybe I’ll stop waiting for you to rest.”

That night, Ajala stood in front of the mirror in her room. The light was dim, casting soft shadows across her face. She stared at her reflection—searching, questioning, wondering if the woman looking back was still her.

Her hair was tied up in a messy bun. Her eyes looked tired, the sparkle gone. The creases on her forehead weren’t from age but from holding in years of silent pain.

She whispered to the woman in the mirror, “Where did you go?”

No one answered. Only silence, like always.

She remembered how she used to dress up just to sit beside Wāsif during dinner. How she used to wait for him to compliment her—even once. A new dress, a new perfume, a new hairstyle… But he had stopped noticing long ago. Somewhere between bills, work, and misunderstandings, she had disappeared.

Not just from his eyes, but from her own.

She opened her drawer and took out an old photo album. Her fingers trembled as she flipped through pages. There they were—smiling, in love, carefree. She paused on a photo where he had his arm around her, his forehead touching hers, their eyes closed like nothing outside that frame mattered.

She touched the image gently.

“Was that real?” she murmured. “Or just a moment?”

The door creaked behind her. Wāsif had returned.

She quickly wiped her tears, put the album away, and composed herself.

He walked in, looking indifferent. “I forgot my charger.”

She didn’t respond.

As he picked it up, he glanced at her. “Are you okay?”

It was a strange question—from a man who hadn’t asked it in months.

“I’m fine,” she replied.

“You’ve been quiet.”

She looked at him. “That’s how you like me now, isn’t it?”

He sighed. “Ajala, please…”

“No. Let’s not do the half-concern thing,” she said sharply. “Either be here fully, or don’t come in at all.”

He looked tired. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” she insisted. “You make it complicated because you’re afraid to admit you’ve stopped loving me.”

He opened his mouth—but then closed it. A long silence hung between them.

She walked past him, brushing his shoulder lightly.

And just before leaving the room, she said softly, “You didn’t just fall out of love with me, Wāsif… You fell out of the habit of seeing me.”

He turned to say something, but she was already gone.

Back in the mirror, her reflection waited again. But this time, she looked at it differently. She saw someone who was tired, yes—but also someone who was waking up from a long, painful sleep.

Maybe it wasn’t about making him see her again.

Maybe it was about learning to see herself again first.