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Chapter 2 - THE DEATH

A month passed.

Aarav once believed that the quietest thing in the world was the sound of loss.He was wrong.

There was something quieter—the silence between two people sharing the same roof and nothing else.

Their apartment was modest but elegant—Roin's touch was everywhere. Minimalist décor, calming colors, clean lines. A framed print of an Edo-period ink painting hung above the dining table. The kitchen was spotless. The tatami room, always closed. Her shoes lined up perfectly near the genkan. His, always slightly crooked.

She took the bedroom. He took the couch.

It had been a month since they exchanged vows—vows written by their grandparents, spoken in the soft light of a temple neither of them had chosen.

A month of existing like ghosts in the same space.

Before marriage, he had known solitude.It was cold, yes, but familiar. Predictable. He had made peace with his own shadow.He worked alone, ate alone, came home to silence. But it was his silence.

Now?

Now there were footsteps in the hallway. A teacup left on the counter. The soft click of a bedroom door locking.There was presence—and absence layered within it.

And that was worse.

"Well," Aarav thought once while sipping cold tea in the darkened kitchen,"People who have no one are lonely.But people who have someone… and are still lonely?Who do you think is more lonely?"

He never asked her outright. He couldn't.

Roin avoided him—not with cruelty, but with detachment.She didn't speak unless necessary.Didn't answer when he asked simple things.Didn't even look at him when they crossed paths in the hallway.

Her stares were glassy, cold—not angry, but distant, like he was a stranger she was forced to house.

Once, he had tried to greet her in the morning.

"Good morning," he had said softly.

She paused by the door, her hair still wet from the shower.She glanced at him briefly, then stepped into her shoes and walked out.No reply.

The silence behind her felt heavier than the door that closed.

Aarav didn't complain.

Maybe she needed time, he told himself.After all, this wasn't love. It was a pact between families, not hearts.An arranged marriage born of tradition, not desire.

He remembered his grandfather saying, "Love can grow in strange soil, given time."

But what if the soil was already salted?

What if the seeds had never been planted to begin with?

Most nights, he didn't sleep.

He lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, listening to the creak of the building and the occasional movement behind the closed door of her room.

Did she cry?Did she hate him?Was she waiting for the day they could separate?

Once, at 2:13 a.m., he thought he heard her sobbing.A soft, muffled sound through the wall.He sat up, instinctively reaching for the bedroom door—but he didn't move.

Because what if he was wrong?

What if she wasn't crying?

What if it was just the wind?

Roin was never cruel.She cooked sometimes, but left his portion in the fridge with a note: "Microwave: 1m 30s."She washed clothes, but folded his without a word.She existed in the apartment like a phantom with fixed routines.

And he became part of the furniture.

Not a husband.Not a partner.Just… something there.

Aarav had never wanted a fairytale. But he hadn't expected to feel less seen after marriage than before it.

He wondered sometimes what would happen if he disappeared.Would she notice?Would the echo in the hallway be slightly different?Would the fridge stay full a little longer?

One evening, he waited by the dining table with two bowls of ramen.He had cooked—well, heated a frozen pack. But it was effort.

She came home late, glanced at the table, said nothing, and walked past.

"Roin," he called out.

She paused.

"I know this… isn't ideal. For either of us. But if you want to talk, or even just sit and eat—no expectations—I'm here."

She turned.

For the first time in weeks, she really looked at him.

And said nothing.

Then walked into her room and shut the door behind her.

The next morning, both bowls of ramen were still on the table. Cold. Uneaten.

And Aarav felt it deep in his bones—that strange, awful truth:

Loneliness doesn't always come from being alone. Sometimes it comes from being invisible.

*

*

The city was alive that evening.Neon lights blinked lazily across tall buildings, the sidewalks bustling with footsteps and low murmurs. Tokyo pulsed like a living thing—breathing, moving, unaware of the tragedies woven between its alleyways.

Aarav walked home like he always did—shoulders slightly slouched, briefcase in one hand, umbrella in the other. The sky above was painted in twilight hues, fading purples and bruised pinks bleeding into black.

His heart, as usual, felt heavy. But tonight, there was something different.

He had stayed late at the office, hoping work would numb the silence waiting at home.Maybe tonight she'd speak. Maybe tonight she'd eat with him.He held onto such foolish hopes like someone cradling shattered glass—knowing it hurts but holding anyway.

He turned the corner of their usual neighborhood street, lined with vending machines and rusted streetlamps, when he stopped.

Frozen. Mid-step. Mid-breath.

There she was.

Roin.

Standing across the street beneath the flickering light of a parking lot sign.And in front of her—a man.

Taller than Aarav. Dressed sharply. One arm wrapped around her waist.His hand cradled her cheek gently.

And then… she kissed him.

Not briefly. Not hesitantly.

But with the kind of hunger and desperation Aarav had never once seen in her eyes—not even on their wedding day.

The world around him slowed.

The street noise became a low, distant hum.The air left his lungs.His briefcase dropped.Time cracked.

The umbrella slipped from his hand, rolling into the gutter.

He stood there, in the middle of the road. His shoes on the crosswalk's edge.Watching her kiss another man.

Not flinching.Not pulling away.Not ashamed.

Then—

A sound.

Loud. Sudden.Metal shrieking. Tires screaming.A scream—someone else's, not his.

Impact.

A white car. Too fast. Too late.

His body flew.

The city didn't stop.

When he hit the ground, there was silence.

Aarav lay sprawled across the cold pavement, his eyes wide open.Lifeless.

But tears still fell.They rolled from his glassy pupils—down his cheeks, across his temple.And somewhere between skin and sorrow, the tears turned crimson.

Blood.

It pooled beneath his head slowly, seeping into the cracks of the sidewalk like ink soaking into paper.

His pupils stared upward—unblinking—toward a sky that refused to look back.Empty.Unfeeling.

Rain began to fall again. Gentle. Just like that day at the crematorium.

And on his left hand, the silver wedding ring caught the light one last time—bathed in blood.

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