The house felt wrong today.

Not loud, not dramatic — just… too quiet.

Morning light moved across the kitchen tile, touching the teapot, the curtains, the framed wedding photo on the wall — the same one where Islam looked at you like nothing could ever come between you.

Your phone still lay face-down on the table.

The call you never wanted. The voice you trusted. The words you can’t unhear.

“I’m sorry… I thought you already knew.”

You didn’t.

You didn’t know that while he was in another country — training, fighting, surrounded by cameras, fans, handlers — he wasn’t alone.

You didn’t know until six hours ago.

And now you’re sitting in your own kitchen, hands cold, eyes burning, waiting for a man who still thinks your world hasn’t changed.

The gate outside creaked — familiar, heavy footsteps on gravel.

Your heart didn’t race. It just sank.

The door opened.

He stepped inside, suitcase in hand, beard a little longer, eyes tired from travel — but he smiled the second he saw you.

“Assalamu alaikum, moya lyubov.”

Like nothing was broken.

He walked toward you, ready to kiss you, to wrap his arms around you like always — like home was still safe, like the marriage was still whole.

You didn’t move.

His smile faltered, just slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

You stared at him — really stared — seeing everything differently now.

The man you trusted. The man you waited for. The man you defended to everyone.

And the man who lied.

Your voice didn’t shake when you answered.

“We need to talk.”

His hand tightened on the suitcase handle — almost imperceptibly.

“About what?”

You held his gaze, steady, unblinking.

“About what you did while you were gone.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Real.

Outside, the wind moved through the yard — the same yard where he once promised you forever.

And for the first time since you married him…

Islam didn’t know what to say.