Arshila's pov
---
It's been weeks.
Weeks of fucking therapy and swallowing back every scream that clawed at the edge of my throat. Weeks of pretending like I don't feel his gaze burning through my skin whenever the room gets quiet enough to hear the hum of the AC.
I can walk now. Slowly. Awkwardly. Like I'm learning how to be human again. And him? He said he can walk too. Said it like it was no big deal. I haven't seen it though. Not once. He swings his long legs off the bed sometimes, rests them on the floor, leans back like a fucking painting, like he was made to be looked at.
Maybe that's why I'm scared to go. To leave this room that smells like antiseptic and something vaguely like his cologne. Four fucking months locked in with him. That's longer than most flings last. And we weren't even a fling. Just… pain partners. Accident mates. Broken people stuck in a luxury hospital room with hidden knives in their hearts.
I hate this place.
I hate it because the moment I leave, I'll never see him again.
And I hate that it hurts.
He's on his phone again. Fingers scrolling lazily, eyes focused like there's something more interesting on the screen than this awkward silence we've mastered over time. I don't have a phone anymore. Mine probably died in the crash. Or maybe it fucking exploded. Who knows. Either way, it feels like another string that's been cut off from me—like everything's slipping.
I stare at him. He doesn't notice.
Fucking hell, he's beautiful. Like unfairly so. Like his face was carved to fuck with people like me—people who believe in stupid things like first love and crushes and happy endings. His jaw flexes slightly as he chews the inside of his cheek, eyes cold and unreadable. I hate how much I want to climb inside his chest and scream just to hear my own echo.
God, I'm pathetic.
He's a Tavarian. A whole fucking Tavarian. He'll marry some powerful, glass-polished woman with long legs and expensive perfume. He'll love someone. Not me. Never me. And here I am, the fucking moron who made the stupid mistake of falling for him during the worst chapter of her life.
I look away, swallowing the tight knot rising in my throat.
Then the door swings open and Izar walks in, voice too chipper for my liking.
"It's confirmed," he says, casually, like he's not about to punch a hole through my chest. "Both of you can go home end of this week."
End of this fucking week.
Izar leaves before the words can properly land, and I sit there, spine straight but soul crumbling. I don't even look at him—I know Zayan won't say anything. He never does when it matters. Silence is his fucking armor.
So I smirk, bitter and dry. "Finally. Freedom from this fucking room."
He says nothing.
Of course he doesn't.
The silence tastes like metal in my mouth. I hate it. I hate him. I hate myself more. My fingers twitch on the blanket and I open my mouth before I can stop myself, not looking at him.
"Will you miss me?" My voice is too light. It's all wrong. "I mean…uh… as an accident mate or broken mate or whatever the fuck we were?"
Still no answer.
I finally look.
He's already staring at me.
And this time, I don't look away. Can't. His eyes drag me in like fucking gravity, and I forget how to breathe. Four months, and I still can't figure out what's behind them. Shadows maybe. Or secrets..
He speaks, voice deep, rough, slow. Like a blade being pulled from velvet.
"Why would I miss you?"
The crack is instant. Like someone just broke something important inside my chest with their bare fucking hands.
I laugh. It comes out too sharp, too fast. A defense mechanism in shitty wrapping.
"Yeah. Right. Why would you."
Silence again.
I nod to myself like I'm okay. Like I'm not seconds away from shattering on the tiled floor. I force my eyes to look anywhere else but at him because fuck, it hurts. Everything about him hurts. His eyes, his mouth, the way his voice makes me ache in places therapy can't reach.
I should've known better.
I should've never let myself feel anything for him. Never let his smirks, his silences, his fucking chain that hangs against his throat like a goddamn tease get under my skin.
But I did.
And now I'm here—heart in pieces, sitting across from a man who made four walls feel like a world, only to remind me that I was never part of his.
Fuck me.
He shifts then. Just slightly. Like he wants to say something else but decides against it. Or maybe I'm just hoping. Maybe I'm still delusional enough to imagine there was ever a chance.
I grip the edge of the bed, nails digging in.
Don't cry.
Don't fucking cry.
I feel his eyes on me again, and this time, I don't look back.
Because if I do—I'll beg him.
And I'd rather fucking die than beg a Tavarian to stay.
---
Zayan's POV
Fuck.
She says it so softly, I almost don't catch it.
"Will you miss me?"
And what the fuck am I supposed to say to that?
Yes.
Yes, I fucking will.
I already do.
Every second she's not near me feels like someone's pressing a knife to my ribs and twisting.
But saying it out loud? Saying it to her?
That's something I don't get to do.
So I smirked like an asshole and said, "Why would I miss you?"
And maybe it's true.
I won't miss her.
Because I'm not letting her go.
Not to her past.
Not to that pathetic excuse of a first love she keeps looking back at like it fucking meant something.
He can rot.
I'll break every rule, cross every line, tear her apart and rebuild her from scratch if I have to—
But I won't lose her.
Not to him.
Not even if it shatters her for a while.
She doesn't say anything back.
And that silence?
It fucking tortures me.
She's sitting beside me, close enough to touch, but suddenly feels like she's lightyears away.
Because of me.
Because I can't say what's in my damn chest.
Because if I let her see it—if I give her even a piece of it—she'll run.
And I won't chase her.
I'll drag her back.
And that's the problem.
So I stay quiet.
Stay in line.
Pretend I'm made of stone when all I want is to fucking pull her in and make her mine so thoroughly she never remembers any name but mine again.
Zayan fucking Tavarian.
She's going to forget everyone else.
And she'll never have to ask me again if I'll miss her.
Because she'll be too busy being mine.
---
Arshila's POV
Tomorrow's the day I get discharged.
And maybe... maybe it's also the day I start forgetting him.
Even if it's slow. Even if it's a fucking lifetime process. Even if it shatters me every second.
But I will.
I have to.
Because I am not the girl who cries for someone who loves someone else. I don't wait. I don't break in front of men like that. Not even for him. Especially not for him.
Even though it feels like my chest is bruising just from the thought of not seeing him after this. Even though I'm scared out of my damn mind. Of him. Of what he makes me feel. Of how fucking safe and dangerous he is at the same time.
God, I hate this.
I hate that I'm going to miss him.
I hate that this stupid room, this suffocating four-walled hell, somehow became a fucking memory. Something... almost cherishable. Something that'll claw at me whenever I try to forget.
But I won't cherish it. I won't let it stay. I won't let the ache grow into nostalgia. Because it'll bleed me dry and I'm already so fucking empty.
So I turn my head toward him, watching as he sits lazily, fingers tapping against the blanket like his bones are made of goddamn patience. Like he's not the reason I'm cracking.
"What will you do when you get home?" I ask, pretending my voice isn't weaker than usual.
He glances at me, jaw tight like I interrupted something dangerous in his head. Then shrugs.
"Shower."
That makes me laugh. A dry, stupid sound. "What else?"
He stares for a second before replying flatly, "Drive. Sleep."
I cock a brow, swallowing the burn in my throat. "So that's what the Tavarian heir does? Real royal shit, huh?"
"Yes," he says without a blink. Fucking robot.
I roll my eyes. "Right. Just... make sure to tell your girlfriend about me."
He fucking chuckles.
Like I told a joke. Like my voice isn't already cracking in the back of my throat.
"Yeah. Okay."
I should stop.
I should stop.
But I don't. Because something inside me is clawing for a reason. For anything. For a piece of truth, even if it's ugly.
So I ask, "Why didn't she ever come to visit you?"
His eyes flick toward me. Sharper now. Amused. Dangerous.
"Why you Want to know?"
I blink. "Uhh, no—just asking."
He leans back, tongue swiping across his bottom lip as he lets the silence hang for a second too long before he answers, "Then don't."
Fucking hell.
"Uhhhhh rude," I mutter under my breath. "Fucking asshole."
But he only smirks like he owns the word. Like I gave him a gift.
And maybe I did.
Because it's easier to call him a fucking asshole than to admit I don't want to leave this room.
Than to admit I don't want to forget him.
Than to admit... I already fucking love him.
But he'll never know.
And I'll never say it.
---
Morning comes like a goddamn thief.
I barely sleep—just toss and turn on that stupid hospital bed all night. Maybe it's the meds wearing off. Maybe it's him sitting on the edge of the fucking bed like he owns time and air and gravity itself. Maybe it's the fact that I have to leave.
My parents are waiting outside. I already heard my mom fussing with the nurse about discharge forms.
And Zayan? That bastard just sits there. Legs stretched. One arm resting on the steel bar of the bed, fingers drumming slowly, rhythmically, like he's counting the seconds I'll be gone. Or maybe not even that. Maybe he's just… fucking bored.
I stand up. My bag's already packed. I've double-checked everything. There's nothing left to delay. Nothing except him.
I glance around the room. The goddamn walls look like they've memorized my breakdowns. The couch has his scent—sharp, clean, something expensive and addictive—and the window still holds the light from the day he pulled the curtains and said "too fucking bright."
Fuck this room.
I turn to him. He looks at me. Of course he does—he always does. Watching me like I'm a puzzle he solved long ago but still enjoys breaking over and over.
"Make sure we won't see each other again," I say.
I hold out my hand. Like a fucking idiot. A goddamn handshake. A final closure.
He looks at it. Then at me.
And that's all.
No movement. No handshake. No words. Nothing. Just those pitch-dark brown Tavarian eyes locked on mine like he's daring me to feel something.
God, I fucking hate him.
So fucking unbothered. So royal. So made of silence and arrogance. That man could set a building on fire and walk out like he just lit a candle.
I pull my hand back. Heat rushes to my face. I'm so fucking humiliated.
I turn to the door. My fingers curl around the handle. I open it.
Before stepping out, I glance back—because I'm that dumb, that masochistic—and of course he's still watching. Not blinking. Just… watching.
Beautiful rich fucker. My stupid heart clenches like it's about to start crying too.
I whisper inside my head—
Forget him, bitch. He's not your league.
He's a fucking Tavarian.
A nightmare with good cheekbones and too much power.
And I shut the door.
Hard.
My parents greet me with soft smiles. My dad takes my bag. Mom puts a hand on my back. And I walk. Down the polished Tavarian Medica hallway.
I don't look back. I don't fucking look back.
But then I see Izar. He's leaning against the wall. Same all-black suit, earpiece in, eyes sharp like always.
He looks at me. His expression unreadable. Not hostile. Not kind. Just… blank.
And then he looks away.
Yeah. Why the fuck would a Tavarian bodyguard smile at someone like me, right?
I walk through the goddamn palace they call a hospital. It's all green-tinted glass, indoor gardens, waterfall walls. The kind of place that looks like fucking Singapore airport had sex with luxury.
Only rich people get admitted here. Royals. Celebrities. Elites.
I'm here because I smashed my body against their heir's bike and woke up in his bed.
Lucky?
No. Just fucking cursed.
The drive home takes an hour. I sit in the backseat like a ghost. My parents talk, but I barely register a word. It's all white noise.
When I reach home, something in my chest loosens.
My house. My room. My world.
Finally.
I walk in like I've returned from war. My feet feel too light, too slow. Like I'm floating.
I drop everything and go straight to the bathroom.
No music. No thoughts. Just water.
The shower hits me like it's trying to wash away everything—his voice, his smirk, his fucking silence.
I lean against the tile wall, eyes shut, and just stand there.
Forget him.
Forget that chain on his chest.
Forget his fucking fangs.
Forget his damn laugh and the vein on his neck when he clenches his jaw.
I punch the wall. Not hard. Just enough to feel something.
"Fuck you," I mutter under the water. "Fuck you for looking at me like that and saying nothing."
Tears mix with the water. I pretend it's just the shower.
My hands slide down my face. I squeeze my eyes shut.
He didn't shake my hand. He didn't ask me to stay.
He didn't say goodbye.
But he watched.
Every fucking second.
I hate that.
I hate how much that means.
I press my forehead against the cold wall and whisper—
"I'll forget you. Even if it takes my whole goddamn life, I fucking will."
And the water keeps running. But nothing inside me feels clean.
---
My phone rings again.
I don't even look at it this time.
I already know it's one of the girls. Probably Ifrah or Shaiza. They take turns calling like there's a rota no one told me about. Like I'm some damn broken switch that might finally work if you press hard enough. I know they mean well. I know they're worried. But I can't give them what they want to hear. I don't have the energy to lie anymore and say I'm fine.
Because I'm not.
And I don't know how to say that without sounding like I'm drowning in drama.
I cut the call and toss the phone onto the bed, face down. It buzzes again almost immediately. Message after message. I don't check them.
The room is too quiet.
But when people are around, it feels worse.
My little brother barges in every few hours just to stare at me like I might disappear if he blinks. He brings me food sometimes. Sits silently next to me and scrolls on his phone, waiting for me to say something — anything. He doesn't push. Maybe he senses it. That weird invisible weight. That tension like a thread in my chest pulled too tightly. That I'm there, but not really.
My mother hovers. Father walks by my room every day but doesn't enter. Like the walls are made of fire and he'll get burned if he steps too close. And yeah, I'm used to being alone. I liked it. I used to crave it. That soft kind of peace only silence brings.
But now?
Now it's like someone replaced my silence with fucking static.
And I'm mad at myself. So fucking mad. Because no matter how many people surround me, no matter how much I tell myself I don't care—
Why the hell am I still thinking about him?
Why does my mind keep going back to that bastard?
It's a closed chapter. Done. Over. Nothing ever even began, actually. So what the hell am I still holding onto?
He doesn't care.
He never did.
He looked at me like I was just another goddamn game. That's all I am to people like them, right? Tavarians don't fall. They just watch others crash and burn.
I grip the edge of my blanket, the material twisting in my fists.
I try to write. Open my draft and stare at the screen. My fingers hover over the keyboard for ten minutes. Twenty. Nothing. Not a single line comes out. The characters don't speak. The words won't move.
Like my brain hit pause and no one told me where the remote went.
I slam the laptop shut.
Fucking useless.
Even Shadin's name on my screen pisses me off now.
He had a chance. So many chances to tell me the truth. That he's one of them. That the Tavarian name runs through his blood too. He kept smiling at me like we were on the same level, like he wasn't hiding behind that golden last name like a coward.
So when he called earlier—I didn't pick up.
And then I blocked him.
I don't want anything to do with Tavarians anymore.
They've done enough damage.
I don't want to see their names, their faces, their damn perfect suits and perfect smiles and perfect lives. I want to be free of all of it. Every reminder. Every whisper of what I stupidly let myself feel.
Days pass.
Everyone gets busy.
Ifrah's buried in work. Shaiza too. Ruby's caught up in her café, sending me pictures of desserts I can't taste and coffee I don't want to drink. My phone's quieter now, except for the occasional "Call me when you can" or "We miss you." Sweet. Empty. Repetitive.
And me?
I'm stuck. Again. Just like before the accident.
Back to being the version of myself I thought I left behind. The one who doesn't know what she's doing, where she's going, or why the hell everything feels like it's falling apart.
It's driving me crazy.
The walls feel smaller. My bed feels foreign. I shower twice a day just to feel something. I scroll for hours but retain nothing. I forget what day it is. I sleep at weird times. I wake up exhausted.
And then there's him.
Aydin.
The only good thing to come out of this mess? My family rejected his proposal. I didn't even have to say anything. They saw what I saw — that arrogance, that need to control everything. He didn't even try to fake kindness when he came to the hospital. Just stood there like he expected me to thank him for showing up.
Asshole.
I remember how he looked me up and down like I was a statistic — damaged goods.
Now look at him.
Jobless.
Miserable.
Probably cursing fate like he's some victim of the universe instead of just getting what he fucking deserves.
Serve him right.
He wanted a pretty little puppet to decorate his pathetic life, not a human being. Well, karma's a bitch with a sharp tongue and I hope it keeps biting him in the ass.
But even with all that satisfaction, even with all these people in my life, even with that hospital bed far behind me now...
I still feel like I'm drowning in a sea of nothing.
Not because of them.
Not because of my friends.
Not even because of Aydin.
But because of him.
Because somehow, despite everything...
He still lives in the corners of my thoughts. Uninvited. Unwanted.
And I hate that I let him get that far.
God, I really fucking hate it.
---
It's been sixty-two days since I got discharged.
Sixty-two goddamn days of nothing. Not healing, not moving forward, not building anything. Just… existence.
And today, I'm pretending again. Pretending I want to send my resume to a couple of companies, as if I want to be hired, to work in some air-conditioned building doing things I don't care about, with people I can't stand. But truth is,
I don't want to work.
I don't want a career.
I don't even have a dream.
There's only one thing I want to do—write. Not to become some celebrated author, not for fame or money. I just want to write him.
Write us.
Not the us that never existed, but the us I imagined. A version of him that's mine—not the Tavarian heir, not the untouchable sovereign. Just… Zayan.
In fiction, I can have him.
In reality, I never did.
And I know it. Every cell in my body knows it. He made it fucking clear, didn't he? That he loves someone else. He said it to my face with that goddamn calm voice like he was reading out a weather report. And it fucking broke something inside me I didn't even know was still intact.
I try to move on, I swear I do. I try harder than I've ever tried for anything in my life.
But I'm still stuck. In the exact same place.
So I run.
I fucking exercise like a lunatic.
Crunches until I can't breathe, squats until my thighs tremble, push-ups until I collapse face-first into the mat. I sweat him out of me every goddamn day.
And now I look good. Hot, even. It's absurd. All this pain sculpted me into a woman people turn to look at on the street.
And for what?
I don't want this life. Not the marriage proposals, not the jobs, not the questions. I want peace. I want a quiet life somewhere in the countryside—
A small cottage with old wooden floors.
A river behind the house, flowing slow and silver.
Shelves stacked with books.
Flowers in the garden.
A rabbit hopping through lavender.
A fat cat sleeping on the windowsill.
No one. No expectations. Just me and the air and the fucking silence.
But I know that life isn't coming for me. Not in this world. Not in this skin. Not with this heart.
It's raining outside. Heavy. The kind of rain that soaks through skin and shakes windows.
I'm on the balcony, legs tucked under me, watching it fall like it wants to drown the earth. I imagine it washing me away too.
Thunder growls low in the clouds. Lightning splits the sky. And I wonder—not for the first time—if God's up there laughing or crying.
Then I hear it. Footsteps.
Soft but heavy.
Familiar.
I don't turn.
I don't need to.
It's my parents.
I know the script. They'll ask something, I'll give a tired answer, they'll sigh and leave, disappointed that their daughter still isn't back to "normal." Whatever the fuck normal means.
They sit on the couch behind me. No one says anything for a while. Just the storm between us.
Then my father clears his throat.
"You really fine now?"
His voice is soft, like he's asking the weather not me.
"Hm," I hum. Not a yes. Not a no. Just something to keep the moment from shattering.
"You don't want to go for any job?" my mother asks, quieter.
I shake my head. "Nope."
Another silence.
Then my father sighs again, deeper this time.
A different kind. A heavier one.
"There's a proposal," he says.
Of course there is.
Of course there fucking is.
One man almost got me engaged already—and thank fucking God that bike crashed into me before the ring did. The accident saved me from that one. Now the next suitor is here to try his luck.
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.
I don't move.
"I don't want to get married," I say, staring at the clouds like they'll pull me into the sky and away from all of this.
"You have to," he says.
I clench my jaw. "Why do you keep pushing something I clearly don't want?"
He doesn't answer.
I glance back, and that's when I see it.
My mother isn't meeting my eyes. She's twisting her fingers in her lap, her mouth pressed into a thin line, her shoulders tight. She looks like she's carrying something she doesn't want to say out loud.
"What's going on?" I ask.
My dad shifts. Avoids my gaze for a beat too long.
"Who is it?" I press.
He looks straight at me.
"Adam Zayan Tavarian."
I freeze.
The world doesn't stop. The rain keeps falling. But my body—my breath, my heartbeat, my bones—they all stop. Like someone just slammed the pause button on my existence.
My throat tightens. My stomach knots. My ears ring.
"What?" I whisper, even though I fucking heard it.
My eyes snap to him.
"Who?" I demand.
He looks right at me.
"Adam. Zayan. Tavarian."
______________________________________
Author note
Okay, let's be real—
If you're still reading this mess, then babe… you're mine now. You're stuck. Too late to run. We ride this emotional rollercoaster together.
So if your heart screamed, your jaw dropped, or you whispered "oh hell no" while reading—
✨VOTE. COMMENT. SHARE.✨
Yes, I see y'all ghost readers. 👀
Don't make me unleash my inner villain.
Your support means the world (and maybe Zayan's shirt stays off a little longer if y'all behave 👀).
Let's break some hearts, burn some pages, and build this story into something fucking unforgettable.
Now go! Drop your thoughts, your rants, your theories—I live for the chaos.
Till next time,
Your slightly deranged but emotionally unstable author 💋