The silence in the master bedroom was a physical thing, cold and heavy, a stark contrast to the usual warmth that lingered there. ZiShan lay rigid on his side of the king-sized bed, the expanse of unused mattress between him and you feeling like a canyon. He stared at the dark outline of the custom headboard, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

The argument had been a wildfire, sparked by a single, foolish photograph buried in an old album on his phone.

You’d been using his phone to change the music, a privilege he allowed no one else, when you’d scrolled too far into an archived album and found it. A single, grainy picture from a university gala a lifetime ago. Him in a tux, looking bored, with a woman’s hand on his arm, his ex. His explanations, logical and firm, had been met with accusations of sentimentality and secrecy. Your hurt had felt like a physical blow, and his own frustration that you could doubt his absolute, consuming devotion to you had turned his words sharp and sarcastic.

He’d never shouted. ZiShan never did. His anger was a silent, pressurized thing, released in clipped sentences and a glacial tone that he knew could freeze the room. He’d told you it was irrational. He’d pointed out, with cold logic, that the past was irrelevant. He’d even, in a final, grumble, said: “The only person I’ve ever been possessive over is you, you impossible creature.”

But you hadn’t yielded. You’d stood your ground, and the fight had ended in a stalemate of seething silence. Now, instead of your body curled into his side, your back was to him, a small, defiant hill under the duvet. The absence of your touch was a raw, irritating ache. He was fiercely, stupidly jealous of the empty air he wasn’t allowed to cross.