Dr. Myra’s office smelled like chamomile and soft lemon. The kind of scent that tried too hard to say safe space.
Zara sat on the couch, the same one she’d been coming to for week. Her fingers traced the edge of a pillow she never used.
Dr. Myra watched her quietly, giving her space.
Zara’s voice was barely above a whisper. “When Ara used to live with Uncle Damien and Aunt Clara… why didn’t anyone tell me what was happening with her?”
Dr. Myra tapped her pen gently against the pad. “You never received any clear response from them?”
Zara shook her head. “I did try. I called Clara first. She said Ara was just overwhelmed. That she needed space. She asked me not to worry.”
She exhaled slowly. “Then I called Damien. He said Ara had gone to a retreat. For mental health. But when I called again two weeks later, he said she was visiting a friend. And then another time, he said she was in therapy and didn’t want to be disturbed.”
Her fingers twisted the edge of her sleeve.
“They kept changing the story. I tried calling again and again. Eventually, they stopped replying altogether.”
Myra studied her. “And that didn’t strike you as… suspicious?”
Zara’s jaw tightened. “It did. But I didn’t know what to do. I thought maybe Ara really didn’t want to talk to me. Maybe I’d done something. Maybe she—”
She broke off. Swallowed hard.
“I was afraid,” she whispered. “Afraid I was losing her. Afraid she already wanted to be lost.”
A silence settled between them.
Then—
“Zara,” Myra said slowly. “Do you think Ara left on her own?”
Zara blinked. “No.”
The word came out before she could stop it. Fierce. Certain.
“I don’t know what happened. But she wouldn’t just vanish. Not without telling me.”
Myra leaned back. “Trust,” she murmured. “Such a fragile thing, isn’t it?”
Zara didn’t answer. After a moment, she stood up.
“I need air.”
“Of course,” Myra said.
Zara walked out into the corridor. The light seemed too white. Too clean. She passed a nurse she didn’t recognize and stepped outside into the evening sun.
The door clicks softly behind Zara as she steps out of the room. The corridor stretches before her — quiet, sterile, still smelling faintly of antiseptic and paper.
And then… she sees him.
Zaviaan. Leaning against the wall just near the corner, coat half-folded on his arm, gaze lowered to something on his phone. Until he senses movement — and looks up.
His eyes catch hers.
Stillness.
A flicker of disbelief crosses both their faces. Then a strange stillness hangs between them. The kind that used to mean everything. The kind that once carried a thousand unsaid things.
ZARA
(quiet, almost surprised)
“…I didn’t expect you to be here.”
ZAVIAAN
(gently lifts a brow)
“Neither did I. Honestly.”
(pauses, a small amused scoff)
“I don’t run this hospital… yet.”
A soft breath escapes her nose. Almost a smile.
ZARA
“It’s been years…”
Zaviaan doesn't nod. He just says it — like the number has lived in him all this time.
ZAVIAAN
“Three years, two months, and nineteen days.”
Zara’s expression shifts. A moment's silence.
ZARA
“Still counting?”
ZAVIAAN
“Only the things matter.”
She looks away, that familiar nervous half-laugh tugging at her lips.
ZARA
“You were always the numbers guy.”
He didn’t answer that. Just kept looking at her, like he was memorizing her all over again. And in his silence, she felt the weight of everything he wasn't saying.
Her chest ached. She wanted to ask. About Ara. About where he had been. About why it hurt just to see him now.
But all that came out was:
“You look tired.”
He laughed once, softly. “Yeah. Well. Life hasn’t exactly been restful.”
Another pause. One heartbeat. Then another.
“You still wear your watch on the wrong wrist,” he said, eyes flicking to her hand.
Zara looked down — and smiled. “Some things don’t change.”
He opened his mouth, maybe to say something real — something that would tear the silence wide open — but didn’t.
And here,
There’s a question in her eyes. One she doesn’t quite voice.
that
How did you know that?
Why does it still matter?
Did you wait?
But instead, she turns toward the exit.
ZAVIAAN
“Let me walk you out.”
She doesn’t respond with words. Just starts walking.
He follows.
At the door, as she’s about to step outside, she hesitates — barely noticeable.
He notices.
But doesn’t speak.
She wanted to ask. The questions swam to the tip of her tongue — fierce, desperate, sharp. But then she saw his eyes. Not cold. Not blank. Just... tired. Heavy with things unspoken. And for once, her voice faltered.
So she said nothing. Not yet.
End of the chapter.
Longing lingers. In words left unsaid. In looks that last too long. In the pauses that shouldn’t hurt — but do.
If you felt the quiet between Zara and Zaviaan…
Stay. Comment. Like.vote. Or just feel it with me.
More coming soon — and always more on Instagram @authorm.zehra
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