The house had never felt so silent before.
Not when Ren was away on business. Not even during the nights Aiko sat alone in the living room while he worked late. This silence was different—it was alive. It curled around her like smoke, filling the spaces Ren used to occupy with warmth, laughter, or just his steady presence. Now, he was everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Ever since that night—the night she dared to ask the question—it's as if something inside him quietly broke.
Aiko sits at the dining table, dinner untouched, eyes trailing toward the hallway where footsteps used to echo. She remembers how Ren always took the seat across from her, his chopsticks dancing mid-air as he teased her about her stubborn eating habits. How he used to tilt his head and smile softly when she pouted. Now... that seat remains cold, the air above it hollow. Ren doesn't join her anymore. He hasn't in days.
He still cares, though. She knows that. He still brings her tea when she's curled up on the sofa. Still places her books near the window because he knows she likes reading in the light. Still keeps guards stationed outside her door, watching her every move as if she might disappear.
But he no longer sees her.
And Aiko... doesn't know why.
She clutches the edge of the couch, her eyes blankly on the television screen. A sitcom laughs in the background, but she doesn't follow the plot. All she sees is the figure in black, moving past the hallway mirror. Ren—fully dressed again. Coat buttoned, gloves on, hair slicked back as if heading into war.
She watches him from behind. Her lips part slightly, as if to speak. Ask. Beg. But something heavy grips her throat, and all she manages is breath.
Ren doesn't look back.
"I'll be late," he says, monotone. "Don't wait for me."
Then he's gone. The door shuts behind him with a soft click. But to Aiko, it's deafening.
The clock ticks. The heater hums. She feels it—the chill that creeps over her skin, the weight of absence. She lies in bed later, curled against the cold sheets, hugging a pillow that smells faintly of detergent. Not of him. She misses the warmth of his arms. The quiet rhythm of his breathing next to her. The way his thumb used to brush her knuckles as they fell asleep. He wasn't just her obsession. He was her only home.
Now… she feels like a stranger.
Minutes turn to hours. The night refuses to end.
Finally, unable to bear the loneliness, Aiko swings her legs over the bed and walks to the door. She hesitates, hand on the knob. The hallway light spills in as she opens it slowly. One of Ren's men stands outside—same man as always, tall and unmoving like a statue.
She walks up, her voice barely a whisper. "Can I borrow your phone?"
The guard shifts. "You should be asleep, miss."
"I know. But…" Her eyes glimmer, wide, uncertain. "Please. Just once. I need to talk to him. I-I just need to hear his voice."
The man frowns, hesitant. She looks… wrecked. Disheveled. Not from fear. But from longing. Like she's been unraveling, thread by thread, and only one person could stitch her back.
He sighs and pulls the phone from his pocket, offering it silently.
Aiko grabs it like it's her last lifeline. Her fingers tremble as she scrolls to Ren's number—still memorized. Still sacred. She presses "Call."
It rings.
Once…
Twice…
Her breath hitches.
Three…
Four…
No answer.
She bites her lip hard enough to sting and presses call again. And again. And again.
Each ring that ends without an answer carves deeper into her chest. With every silence, her thoughts get louder—Is he angry? Did I do something wrong? Is he… leaving me?
The phone shakes in her hands.
The last call ends with a cold beep. Aiko lowers the phone slowly, tears brimming in her lashes. She doesn't sob. Doesn't scream. She simply stands there in that dim corridor, gripping the device like a ghost gripping memories.
The guard doesn't say anything. Maybe because there's nothing to say.
She gives the phone back wordlessly and walks back into her room. The door clicks shut, letting the silence eats her whole...