AZIZA — POV
There’s something about quiet that used to soothe me.
Not anymore.
Now, silence is just a breeding ground for dread.
It started subtly—barely-there details I could’ve easily ignored if I wasn’t so attuned to lack. A maid I hadn’t seen in days. A driver replaced with a rental app. The fresh lilies that used to arrive every Tuesday from that overpriced florist in Victoria Island? Replaced with nothing. Just a lonely, empty vase on the dining room table, its glass catching the sunlight like it was mocking me.
Wilbet doesn’t mention any of it. Not the missing staff, not the scaled-down dinners, not the canceled weekend getaway to countries that we never miss. He just moves through the house like it’s still filled with noise and people and champagne—like it’s still his.
But I
