Game Over

Episode:7

The Wake-Up Call

Morning came again, but this time Ajala didn’t wake up to prepare breakfast.

The kids called her name from the hallway, confused and hungry. Wāsif, rushing for work, knocked on the bedroom door.

She didn’t answer.

He opened it slowly and found her sitting on the bed, still in her night clothes, staring out of the window. Her eyes were open, but they didn’t move. It was as though she had locked herself in a place he could no longer reach.

“You’re not feeling well?” he asked carefully.

She didn’t look at him. “I’m just... not feeling anything.”

He frowned, clearly unsure how to respond. “Do you want me to take the kids to school?”

She nodded slightly, still not facing him.

He left the room, confused but relieved that she didn’t start another argument. That’s how far things had fallen—he felt grateful for silence instead of emotional honesty.

But inside, Ajala was breaking.

This wasn’t a game. This wasn’t some guilt trick. This was the result of years of carrying the weight of two people in a relationship that had become one-sided.

She had tried every tone—soft, loud, angry, kind. Nothing changed. And now, her silence wasn’t for peace; it was for survival.

When the kids were gone and the house emptied again, she stood in front of the wardrobe.

She ran her hand across her dress, the ones he never noticed. Her fingers landed on a bright yellow kameez—one he had once called “sunlight in fabric.” That was back when he used to look at her like she was something worthy of being seen.

She held it close for a second and then let it fall.

She wasn’t chasing his gaze anymore.

She spent the day doing nothing. Not cleaning. Not cooking. Not waiting. Just existing. And surprisingly, the house didn’t fall apart. The world didn’t stop. The Earth kept spinning.

It made her realize something painful: maybe she wasn’t holding the house together after all. Maybe she was just holding herself hostage to prove her worth.

By evening, Savera called again.

“I’m coming over,” her voice was firm. “Don’t say no.”

When Savera arrived, she didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t try to cheer Ajala up with forced smiles. She simply sat beside her and said, “You look tired.”

Ajala leaned her head on Savera’s shoulder. “I’m not tired. I’m done.”

Savera wrapped an arm around her. “Then maybe it’s time to stop trying and start deciding.”

Ajala closed her eyes. For once, she wasn’t thinking about what Wāsif wanted. She wasn’t wondering if he’d change. She was thinking about her voice, the one she had muted for too long.

Later that night, when the house had once again gone quiet and the children were asleep, Ajala found herself sitting at the small study desk in the corner of her room. A pen in her hand. A blank sheet of paper before her.

She didn’t plan to write. The paper had been lying there for weeks. But suddenly, her hands moved on their own, like her heart had waited long enough to speak.

And so she wrote—not a poem, not a story, not a dramatic speech. Just truth, raw and bare.

Dear Wāsif,

I don’t know when you stopped seeing me. I don’t know if I disappeared slowly or all at once. I don’t even know if it matters anymore.

But I want to write this while I still care. While I still feel something, even if it’s only hurt.

You used to make me feel like the only woman in a room. Now, I could vanish, and you wouldn’t notice until the laundry piled up or your dinner got cold.

I begged for your time, not because I’m needy—but because I loved you. And love, Wāsif, is not just about being present in the same room. It’s about being available in the same heart.

I stopped asking questions. Not because I trusted you, but because I got tired of hearing lies dressed as calm explanations.

I stopped crying in front of you. Not because I healed, but because I didn’t want to look weak in front of someone who made me strong once.

Do you know what that feels like? Watching the person who once saved you become the person you need saving from?

You haven’t been cruel, Wāsif. You haven’t raised your voice. You haven’t cheated—at least, I have no proof. But you’ve done something worse.

You’ve made me feel like I am too much, like my love is a weight you can’t carry. Like my care is nothing but noise in your world. Like my presence is a kind of pressure you wish you could escape. Every glance, every pause, every sigh from you has slowly taught me to shrink myself, to speak softer, to take up less space.

And yet, here I am. Still. Writing a letter I may never send. Saying words you may never hear. Pouring out thoughts you may never read. Because somewhere inside me, I still hold the version of you that once looked at me like I was the very center of your universe, the one thing you never wanted to lose.

But if that version of you is gone for good—if that love has truly died—then maybe it’s time for me to disappear too. Not in anger. Not to prove a point. Not even to protect my pride. But simply… for peace. For the quiet I have been craving.

Because even the fiercest storms need to rest. Even silence deserves to be honored. And even a heart that’s been bruised deserves to stop bleeding.

She stared at the letter for a long time, her eyes tracing each word as if memorizing them. Then, with slow and careful hands, she folded it into a neat square. She placed it in the drawer, tucked away in the dark, and did not write his name on the envelope. She did not leave it somewhere he might stumble upon it.

Because tonight was not about him anymore.

It was about her.

Ajala turned off the light, the room sinking into shadows. She climbed into bed, her body still heavy with ache, but something inside her had shifted. For the first time in what felt like forever, she let her chest rise and fall without the weight of holding back tears. And in that fragile space between hurt and healing, she finally began to breathe again.