Clara woke before dawn.
For a few seconds, she lay still, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, her mind empty. Then reality returned—quiet, unannounced, heavy.
I'm married.
The thought settled slowly, like a garment she had not yet learned how to wear.
She rose, washed her face, and tied her hair back with deliberate care. There was no reason to rush, yet she moved carefully, as though sudden movements might disturb the fragile order of things. When she stepped into the hallway, the house was already awake.
Zayd stood in the living room, fastening the buttons of his uniform with mechanical precision. Each movement was practiced, exact—discipline made visible.
He did not look at her.
"Good morning," she said softly.
"Morning," he replied, his voice neutral.
She hesitated near the doorway, unsure of where she belonged now. Wife was a word that implied closeness, but everything between them remained unfamiliar.
"I'll be out most of the day," Zayd said. "Briefings. Final paperwork."
She nodded. "I'll stay home."
"You don't have to," he added, glancing at her briefly.
"I know," she said. "But I want to."
Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps—but he said nothing.
⸻
Breakfast passed quietly.
Grandma Tika filled the silence with harmless observations, determined cheer woven through her words. Clara responded politely when addressed, keeping her hands folded neatly in her lap.
At one point, Grandma Tika smiled at her. "You should call him by his name. You're his wife now."
Clara felt her shoulders tense.
She glanced at Zayd.
He neither encouraged nor stopped it.
"Zayd," she said softly.
He nodded once.
That was all.
⸻
After he left, the house seemed to exhale.
Clara helped Grandma Tika with chores—folding laundry, sweeping the porch, small tasks that kept her hands busy while her thoughts wandered.
Two days, she reminded herself.
Two days of learning how to exist beside a man who would soon be gone.
In the afternoon, she sat at the table with her lesson notes spread out before her. Teaching usually calmed her, but today the words blurred.
Her phone buzzed.
She stared at it before finally opening the message.
So it's true? You married him?
Bastian.
Her chest tightened.
You're really throwing everything away over a misunderstanding?
Clara typed slowly, deliberately.
There was no misunderstanding. There was a choice you made.
The reply came almost immediately.
This feels rushed. Are you sure this is what you want?
She closed her eyes.
She wasn't sure.
But she was certain of one thing—she would not return to a place where she had begged to be valued.
She locked the phone and set it aside.
⸻
Zayd returned just before sunset.
He looked different than he had in the morning—fatigue etched beneath his composure, tension settling deep in his shoulders. Not physical exhaustion, but the weight of leaving.
"I made tea," Clara said when he entered the kitchen. "If you want."
He paused. Then nodded. "Thank you."
They sat across from each other, steam rising between them.
"You don't need to be nervous," he said after a moment.
She looked up. "I'm not."
That wasn't entirely true.
"I mean," he continued carefully, "this doesn't need to feel heavier than it is."
Her fingers tightened around the cup. "I know what this is."
He studied her quietly.
"You can continue your studies," he said. "Your work. Nothing changes."
Except everything already had.
"I plan to," she replied.
A pause stretched between them.
"You won't be... lonely?" he asked, the word awkward, unused.
She smiled faintly. "I've learned how not to be."
The answer unsettled him.
⸻
That night, they slept in separate rooms.
Clara lay awake listening to the house settle, to distant traffic and the occasional bark of a dog. She pressed a hand against her chest, feeling her heartbeat steady but strange.
Marriage, she realized, was not always loud.
Sometimes it was quiet enough to ache.
Down the hall, Zayd sat on the edge of his bed, boots lined neatly on the floor, uniform hanging perfectly on the chair.
He had faced gunfire without hesitation.
Yet the presence of another life connected to his—waiting, adjusting, enduring—made his chest feel tight.
This was temporary, he told himself again.
Two days.
Then distance would restore order.
⸻
The second day passed in fragments.
A shared meal.
Brief conversation.
Careful avoidance of anything that felt too close.
In the evening, Grandma Tika insisted they sit together.
"He leaves tomorrow," she said pointedly. "At least talk."
They sat side by side on the couch, a respectful space between them.
"When I'm gone," Zayd said, turning toward Clara, "if you need anything—"
"I'll manage," she replied gently.
His brow furrowed. "You don't always have to."
"I know," she said. "But I can."
Silence followed.
"I didn't plan this," he admitted quietly.
"Neither did I."
He looked at her then—not critically, not dismissively—but with something closer to curiosity.
"You're younger than I expected," he said.
"And you're colder than I imagined," she replied, just as softly.
The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile.
⸻
That night, Clara packed a small bag for him.
Socks. Undershirts. A folded note she hesitated over before slipping it inside.
Stay safe.
It felt like enough.
When she handed him the bag the next morning, their fingers brushed.
They both froze.
Then he pulled his hand away.
"I'll be back," he said.
It sounded like a promise he hadn't planned to make.
"I'll be here," she replied.
As the door closed behind him, Clara stood very still.
And for the first time since the rain-soaked night that had changed everything, Zayd wondered—
Not whether distance would protect him.
But whether it would teach him what it felt like to lose something he had never meant to claim.