The following days passed with an unsettling quiet, each moment slipping by like grains of sand, too fine to grasp. Zakirah spent most of her time in the room, retreating to the solitude she was familiar with, where her thoughts could run wild on paper. Her romance novels provided a temporary escape from the coldness that surrounded her marriage, and the characters she created were much more alive and vibrant than the life she was living.

But even in her solitude, Zakirah couldn't ignore the emptiness that lingered in her heart. The distance between her and Omar had only grown, a vast chasm that felt impossible to cross. She had never been good at reaching out to others—her introverted nature made it difficult to bridge the gap between herself and the outside world. The quiet, introspective life she led had always been her refuge. But now, her silence, her careful detachment, was only amplifying the silence in her marriage.

There were no calls to him. No gentle questions to break the ice. Every time she tried to speak, he seemed lost in his world—his work, his responsibilities, his past. She had hoped for small moments of affection, but none came. And while she had accepted the reality of her marriage, a part of her still longed for something... more.

One afternoon, she sat by the window again, watching the world outside. The sun was beginning its descent, the warm glow of sunset casting a soft, golden light over the garden. She liked the sunsets. They reminded her that there was beauty in the world, even if it was fleeting.

As she absentmindedly traced her finger over the paper of her sketchpad, she felt a presence beside her. She hadn't heard the door open, but now, there was a shadow at the edge of her peripheral vision.

Omar.

He was standing just at the threshold of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid. His eyes, though, were on the sunset, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn't immediately buried in his work. He was... watching the same view she had been lost in.

Zakirah didn't speak immediately, unsure of what to say. She had always been the type to observe before acting, and right now, she was unsure of what this moment meant. Was he here to speak? Or just to stand in the silence between them?

He broke the silence first, his voice low but not unkind. "The sunset is beautiful," he said. "I used to come here often when I was younger. My mother loved the sunsets too."

Zakirah's heart stuttered at the mention of his mother. She had never heard him speak of her before, and though the words were simple, there was a rawness to them, a fleeting hint of vulnerability that caught her off guard.

"Do you miss her?" she asked softly, not sure if she should press or not.

Omar didn't respond immediately. He simply stood there, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. It was as though he was lost in thought, in a place only he could go.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "I try not to. It's easier not to." He paused, a small sigh escaping his lips. "But sometimes, it hits me when I least expect it."

Zakirah's heart tightened. She wanted to say something, to comfort him, but she was never good with words, especially when it came to emotions. She didn't know how to ease his pain, and perhaps, that was the most painful part of their marriage. She was willing, but she didn't know how to be what he needed.

"I didn't know," she murmured. "That she loved the sunsets."

A small, sad smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I never spoke of her much. There were too many things I was too afraid to face... and too many things I didn't want to remember."

Zakirah nodded, understanding more than she could say. She didn't press further. Sometimes, the silence between them was all they could offer each other.

But there was something about this moment—this quiet, shared space—that felt different. She could sense that his guard was slightly lower, that he was letting down just a tiny fraction of the wall he'd built around himself. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make Zakirah feel like maybe, just maybe, there was hope for their connection.

Later that evening, after dinner, Zakirah was sitting at the small writing desk in their room, her thoughts wandering to her novel. She was struggling with the emotions of her characters—two people who were falling in love, but who had walls built around their hearts. The plot mirrored her own life more than she wanted to admit, and it left her feeling restless.

She was lost in her writing when she felt Omar's presence again. He didn't say anything at first, just stood there in the doorway, observing her. It wasn't until she felt the weight of his gaze that she finally turned to face him.

"You're working again," he said, his tone neutral but not unkind. There was something different about the way he said it—almost like he was trying to engage, trying to find a way in.

"I am," she replied, offering him a small, cautious smile. "I always work when I'm... thinking."

He nodded, his gaze shifting to the pages scattered in front of her. There was a quiet understanding between them, unspoken but present. He understood the need for solitude, the desire to lose oneself in something other than reality.

"I've read your work," he said, surprising her. "Your stories. They're... beautiful."

Zakirah blinked, surprised that he had actually taken the time to read her novels. She had never imagined that he would show any interest. She hadn't written with him in mind; she didn't even think he would care.

"Thank you," she said, her voice soft. "You never mentioned it before."

Omar's lips pressed together into a thin line. "There's not much time for it. But I know you pour a lot of yourself into them. I can see it. Even if I don't understand every part of it."

Zakirah's heart fluttered at his words. It wasn't an expression of love or even affection, but it was a small acknowledgment. And sometimes, that was enough.

"There's always something in your stories," he continued, "something about wanting more. Wanting something real."

She nodded, feeling a strange warmth in her chest. "That's what I want, Omar. Something real. Not the fairy tale, not the perfect love, but... something true."

For a moment, the air between them felt different—lighter, softer. It was as if the smallest bridge had been built between them, a delicate thread of understanding.

"I don't know how to give that to you," he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper, "but I'll try. I'll try, Zakirah."

Her breath caught in her throat. This was the first time he had acknowledged the need for something more between them, even if he didn't fully understand it.

And in that moment, Zakirah knew—perhaps more than ever—that their journey wasn't going to be easy. But it would be a journey, nonetheless.