Game Over

Episode:10

The next morning, Wāsif woke up before the alarm. The bed felt too big. Too hollow. He reached for the blanket out of habit and then remembered—Ajala hadn’t slept beside him for over a week.

Something in him cracked that day. Not from anger. Not from guilt. But from the terrifying realization that love wasn’t permanent. That presence wasn’t guaranteed. That even the most loyal hearts have a breaking point.

He stood at the mirror, fixing his tie, and stared into his own eyes like a stranger.

Who had he become?

The man staring back wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t violent. He wasn’t heartless.

But he was inattentive.

He was distracted.

He was the kind of man who forgot the value of soft eyes and warm hands until both had grown cold.

That morning, he didn’t leave the house without saying something. He walked into the kitchen where Ajala stood, tying the kids’ lunch bags.

“I’ll pick up the kids today,” he said.

She looked up briefly. “Okay.”

No resistance. No softness. Just agreement.

He took a deep breath. “And I’ll make dinner tonight.”

That caught her attention for a second. Her eyes rose to his face, searching for the joke.

“You cook?” she asked.

He smiled faintly. “I want to learn.”

She didn’t argue. She didn’t tease. She simply nodded. “Okay.”

He left with a heart full of nerves and a list of recipes copied from Google.

At work, he ignored his coworkers’ jokes. He skipped lunch with the team. He spent his break scrolling through notes on *how to boil rice correctly*. It was humbling—how little he knew about the everyday things Ajala had done silently for years.

That evening, he arrived home early, apron tied awkwardly around his waist, sleeves rolled up.

The kitchen was a battlefield—onions half chopped, salt almost forgotten, fingers narrowly saved from the knife’s edge. But he pushed through.

Ajala passed by once. Saw the mess. Said nothing. She only paused slightly before continuing upstairs.

By dinner, he had managed rice, lentils, and a watery curry that lacked spice—but smelled like effort.

He set the table himself. Laid out four plates. Lit a small candle in the center. Called the children, then softly called, “Ajala, dinner’s ready.”

She came down, saw the table, saw the food, saw him.

And for a second—just one second—her eyes flickered. Not with love. Not with forgiveness.

But with recognition.

The man she once married was trying. Clumsily. Imperfect. But genuinely.

She sat at the table, lifted a spoonful of curry, tasted it, and coughed lightly.

“It’s a bit salty,” she said, hiding a small smile.

He chuckled nervously. “First attempt. Maybe I need to burn it once to learn.”

She nodded.

The children laughed.

And for the first time in a long time, their home didn’t feel like a war zone.

It felt like two people sitting on opposite sides of a bridge—not crossing it yet,

But finally beginning to rebuild it.

Later that night, after the kids were tucked in and the dishes were drying quietly beside the sink, Ajala stood by the open window, sipping her tea.

Wāsif joined her, standing a little behind—not too close, not too far. He didn’t speak right away. He had learned now that silence could be a bridge, too—not all gaps needed to be filled with words.

She took a slow sip, then finally asked, “Why now?”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Maybe because I saw what life looks like when you stop waiting for me.”

Ajala looked ahead. “So it took me to pull away for you to realize I was ever close?”

He nodded. “I wish it hadn’t.” I wish I could say I had seen it all along. But I didn’t. I got used to your presence. I confused your patience with permanence.”

She leaned her head slightly against the frame. “I gave you everything I could.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“No,” she said gently but firmly. “You think you know.” But you don’t. You don’t know how many days I sat alone and convinced myself you were just tired. How many nights have I cried in the dark beside you and swallowed my voice so you could sleep? "How many times have I doubted my worth because you wouldn’t say even one kind word?”

Her voice didn’t shake. It was strong—like a truth she’d practiced a thousand times in her heart.

“I remember now,” he said quietly. Not all the moments. But enough to realize how selfish I was in the name of being busy.”

She glanced at him briefly. “You were never asked to be perfect, Wāsif. Just present.”

A pause passed between them, then he spoke, slower than before. “Today, when I cut onions, I remembered the way you always rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand. And when I burned the daal slightly, I laughed because I used to tease you about doing that once—and I made it ten times worse.”

She smiled faintly.

He turned to her. “And when I served dinner, and no one was angry, I realized… maybe love was never in the words we said or didn’t say. Maybe it was in the thousands of tiny things I never thanked you for.”

Ajala looked at him again. Longer this time.

“Then start with one,” she said. Not a grand speech. Not an apology poem. Just… thank me. Like you mean it.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat and whispered, “Thank you, Ajala. For the meals. For patience. For carrying both of us when I didn’t notice you were getting tired.”

Her eyes glistened but didn’t fall.

And for the first time in a long time, something fragile passed between them—

not forgiveness,

But maybe… the beginning of it.