Distance did not end their marriage.
It reshaped it.
Zayd learned how to control the sound of his own voice during their calls—how to keep it steady, how to end conversations before silence turned into something dangerous. He learned how to retreat politely, how to pretend fatigue when warmth lingered too long. And Clara felt it, even when she said nothing.
He stepped back each time she stepped closer.
Not because he did not care.
But because he cared too much.
Zayd had survived warzones by believing emotions were liabilities. Love was chaos. Attachment was weakness. And Clara—quiet, patient, radiant Clara—was becoming something he could no longer manage with rules.
So he chose distance.
And Clara, sensing the fear beneath it, stopped reaching.
⸻
The day Zayd returned home arrived without warning.
Clara woke before dawn, long before the house stirred. She stood in the kitchen, tying her hair back, breathing deeply as she prepared his favorite dishes—the ones she had practiced again and again in his absence. She remembered Grandma Tika's instructions, the flavors Zayd preferred, the way warmth mattered more than complexity.
Cooking calmed her.
It reminded her that love could be built through intention.
The house slowly filled with familiar aromas. Grandma Tika emerged first, already dressed neatly, eyes sharp with anticipation. Nurma followed soon after, bouncing with excitement, dressed in her best clothes.
"He'll be here soon," Nurma said for the fourth time.
Clara smiled. "I know."
Her hands trembled slightly as she wiped them on a towel.
She hadn't seen him in months.
⸻
When the car finally stopped outside, Zayd stepped out slowly.
He looked thinner. Older. His posture was still disciplined, but there was a weariness beneath it—a fatigue that no uniform could hide.
Then he saw her.
The woman standing beside his mother was not the Clara he had left behind.
She stood tall now, her posture effortless, her presence calm and assured. Her skin glowed with health. Her hair fell in soft curls around her shoulders. She wore a dress that followed her shape without clinging, shoes that lifted her stance and confidence.
She looked like someone who had learned how to belong to herself.
Zayd forgot to move.
Forgot to breathe.
"Welcome home," Clara said gently.
Her voice was the same.
That made his chest tighten.
⸻
Dinner was uncomfortable in the quietest way.
Nurma talked endlessly, excitement spilling from her words. Grandma Tika watched everything with knowing eyes. Zayd ate slowly, aware of Clara's presence in a way that unsettled him—her movements graceful, her laughter light, her calm unmistakable.
"You cooked all this?" he asked at last.
Clara nodded. "I hoped you'd like it."
"It's good," he said.
It wasn't praise.
It was reverence.
That night, they shared a room.
Not because they planned it.
Because neither of them knew how to ask for distance without exposing fear.
They stood on opposite sides of the bed, unsure.
"I can sleep on the couch," Clara offered quietly.
"No," Zayd said immediately. "You shouldn't."
So they lay down carefully, facing opposite directions, space between them filled with unspoken tension. No words. No touch.
Yet when morning came, they woke closer than they remembered choosing—her back against his chest, his arm curved around her waist as if instinct had taken control while discipline slept.
They froze.
Slowly, carefully, they separated.
Neither spoke.
⸻
Grandma Tika noticed everything.
That afternoon, she handed them two tickets.
"A honeymoon," she said simply. "Two days. One night. Bali."
Clara hesitated. "My work—"
"You'll return Sunday evening," the old woman replied. "You're married. Act like it."
Zayd met Clara's eyes.
Neither refused.
⸻
Bali softened them.
The air was warm. The sea endless. Time moved slower there, as if the world itself was urging them to breathe.
They walked along the shoreline, sharing stories in fragments—small truths, moments of laughter, silences that no longer felt threatening. Zayd spoke of his childhood. Clara spoke of her parents' fields.
At night, they sat on the balcony, listening to waves crash gently below.
Until Clara's phone rang.
Again.
Bastian.
She silenced it, irritation flickering across her face.
Zayd noticed immediately.
"Who is it?" he asked.
She hesitated. "Bastian."
The phone rang again.
Zayd stepped closer before she could react.
"That's enough," he said quietly.
She looked up at him, startled.
"You're my wife," he continued, voice low, unsteady. "And I don't want to lose you."
The words were not polished.
They were honest.
Her heart raced. "Zayd..."
"I kept my distance because I thought it was safer," he admitted. "But I won't pretend anymore."
She searched his face.
And saw fear—not control.
"I'm here," she said softly.
The ocean roared behind them.
And something finally gave way.
⸻
That night, they chose each other.
Not out of obligation.
Not out of fear.
But because love, once allowed, refused to be ignored.