Where Chaos Felt Like Home
Aubrey's Pov
Present time
It had been hours since I had been talking—my voice thinning, fraying at the edges like an old ribbon—while Kais filled pages of his notebook in that quiet, ruthless way of his. Michael barely spoke, but he didn't have to; he had mastered the art of listening without appearing to listen, glancing between my words and the documents spread before him like he was dissecting two worlds at once.
The penthouse around us glowed gold with the setting sun, the kind of light that made everything look softer than it actually was. Even the glass walls seemed to breathe in that warm, fading brilliance. Down below, the city was a smear of white and quiet, snow layering rooftops like a memory refusing to melt.
But the view—God, the view—never stopped hurting.
It was impossible to accept that a world so vast, so mercilessly open, could still feel too small to hold my grief. No matter how far my eyes searched through the endless abyss of snowfall, or how far my hands stretched toward horizons that were never mine... she was always just out of reach.
No amount of running or breathlessness could bridge that distance.
No amount of yearning, sorrow, hatred, or love could reverse the truth that she was gone.
And what was left in her absence?
A hollow so deep it felt like I was peeling my own heart out with bare fingers.
I exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over my face. "It's absurd, isn't it? That I'm here—alive, breathing—and she's not even thinking about me. Meanwhile, I'm—" My voice cracked, humiliation burning beneath the ribs. "—I'm still trying to hold onto something that doesn't exist anymore."
Kais finally lifted his eyes from his notebook. They were steady, almost unbearably compassionate in a way he rarely allowed.
"Aubrey," he said quietly, "that's because she cannot think about you."
I stared at him, waiting for the pain to settle, but it didn't. It only sharpened.
He closed the notebook, resting his hand on it as though sealing a truth inside. "After death, the soul still aches for the ones they loved in this world. It tries to linger. To cling. It harms itself trying to stay connected." His voice dropped to something reverent, almost mournful. "So out of mercy, the Lord erases those memories. Not from punishment. Not from cruelty. But to ease the soul's suffering."
My breath stilled.
"So she forgot me," I whispered, the words collapsing on my tongue.
"Because loving me would hurt her even after death."
Kais nodded, and it was the gentlest thing he had ever done.
Michael—silent until now—set down his pen. For the first time that evening, he looked directly at me. Not with judgment. Not with pity. But with a strange, quiet understanding.
"A soul forgetting doesn't mean a soul stopped loving," he murmured.
"It means the pain of remembering would have destroyed it."
The room fell heavy, suffocating in the truth.
Outside, the sun sank behind the skyline—its final sliver disappearing like a door closing.
And in that fading moment, I felt it:
the unbearable, holy cruelty of love.
The kind that survives every world except the next.
"Hey," Kais said suddenly, closing his notebook with a soft thud. "I was thinking we should take a break from the interview. I'll extend my schedule and see if I can leave later." He leaned back in his chair, a small, unguarded smile tugging at him. "I love spending time with you guys. Even if we do it rarely. And honestly? I'm surprised. We don't have a reason to see each other anymore, yet somehow we're still... bonded."
I raised a brow at him, letting my voice drop into that dry edge Michael claims he can never read.
"Well, I am a good enough reason. You're Ayah's brother. Anything that starts and ends with her is automatically my business."
Kais let out a dramatic gasp, one hand flying to his chest.
"Ouch. So if I wasn't related to Ayah, you wouldn't even spare me a look?"
Before I could respond, Michael turned his head sharply toward Kais with the most unimpressed expression I had ever seen on him—brows flat, lips pressed into a straight line, eyes saying God forbid you ever attempt to be endearing again.
Kais noticed, froze mid-cute-gesture, and narrowed his eyes at him.
"What?" he demanded.
Michael didn't move.
"You're thirty," he said bluntly.
"Asking for validation like a twelve-year-old."
Kais looked personally wounded.
I choked on an involuntary laugh, covering it with a cough. "Michael," I said, "that was unnecessarily lethal."
"He asked," Michael replied without remorse, returning to his paperwork as though the room hadn't shifted in the slightest.
Kais's jaw dropped open. "Unbelievable. This is emotional abuse. I'm reporting you."
"Good," Michael murmured. "Report it to HR. I'll approve it myself."
I couldn't stop the small smile forming at the corner of my mouth—pain still carved deep inside me, but for a moment, only a moment, it felt lighter. The kind of lightness Ayah used to create effortlessly just by being in the room.
And now it was happening here—between the three of us, stitched together by grief, memory, and whatever strange, unlikely bond survived the ruins she left behind.
"So what's your idea of fun?" I asked, half out of curiosity, half because I genuinely didn't know what Kais did outside of being... well, Kais.
He shrugged, looking strangely boyish for a moment. "I don't know. But I've always wanted to ice skate. Or maybe ice board. Though boarding might be risky for a newbie like me."
Before I could respond, Michael didn't even look up from the papers he was reading.
"Yeah," he said flatly, "can't afford you to die now, can you?"
Kais blinked, affronted. "Wow. Thank you for your genuine concern."
Michael finally shifted his gaze upward—slowly, unimpressed—as Kais had just said something profoundly stupid.
"That wasn't a concern," he replied. "That was me stating the facts. If you die, I'll have to deal with the paperwork. And frankly, I refuse."
Kais stared at him for a long second, lips parting. "You are—"
"Efficient," Michael cut in.
"I was going to say heartless." Kais scowled.
Michael gave a small, elegant shrug. "Same category."
I couldn't help it—the laugh escaped before I could stop it. It was quiet, but it pulled both their attention toward me.
Kais brightened instantly. "You see? He laughs at my jokes."
"That wasn't your joke," Michael said calmly. "That was at your expense."
Kais gasped dramatically. "I am being bullied in my old age."
"You're not old," I said.
"Exactly," Kais said proudly.
"You're just dramatic," I finished.
Kais deflated. "I walked right into that."
"Skated," Michael corrected without looking up. "Or attempted to."
Kais threw a pillow at him.
Michael didn't even flinch.
Watching them, I realized how gently life had surprised me. I wasn't standing on my own anymore. I had people—real ones—to lean into when the ground beneath me felt unsteady. And I would be there for them, always. It felt like a family had formed around me, not bound by blood, but by everything that mattered more: love, trust, and the quiet understanding of having survived similar storms.