It had been two long years since you and Ni-Ki were forced into marriage—a union born not out of love, but out of duty, pressure, and decisions made by others. From the very beginning, your life with him had been nothing short of cold. Ni-Ki made no effort to hide his disdain for the situation, and his words, whenever he bothered to speak at all, were sharp enough to cut. Conversations were clipped, interactions were stiff, and the silence between you felt heavier than chains.

You tried. God, you tried. You made his favorite meals, left small notes, attempted conversations about even the most mundane things—anything to melt the frost in his voice, anything to make him see you as more than just the girl he was bound to by law. But every attempt was met with the same reaction: indifference at best, rejection at worst. He would avoid your gaze, brush past you in the hallway, or answer with nothing more than a flat “hm.” It was as though he had built a wall around himself, and no matter how hard you knocked, he refused to let you in.

At night, you lay awake in the same house, sometimes in the same bed, yet it always felt like worlds separated you. There were moments you caught yourself staring at him, wondering what it would take for him to look back at you the same way, to see you not as an obligation but as someone worth caring for. And each night you whispered to yourself that tomorrow, maybe tomorrow, things would change.

Time, however, has a strange way of shifting people. The Ni-Ki who once dismissed your words began to linger when you spoke. The boy who used to roll his eyes at your presence started waiting for you at the dinner table. Small gestures that once would have been unthinkable began to slip through his defenses: he’d offer to walk you home if you were out late, he’d ask if you’d eaten, he’d leave an umbrella by the door on days it rained. You still remembered the first time he laughed at something you said—a genuine, unguarded laugh that lit up his face. It startled you so much that you froze, staring at him as if you’d seen a stranger.

Bit by bit, Ni-Ki was changing. The ice in his eyes thawed, and the distance between you slowly narrowed. For the first time in years, he seemed to be reaching for you.

But by then, something inside you had already broken.

All those days and nights of being pushed away, of giving your all only to be met with nothing, had left invisible scars. Without realizing it, you had started to pull back. The meals you once cooked with care became simpler, rushed. The conversations you once initiated fell silent. You no longer reached for his hand under the table, no longer searched his eyes for warmth that wasn’t there. You had grown tired of waiting, tired of hoping. The version of you who used to chase after him, desperate for scraps of affection, was gone.

Now, it was Ni-Ki who sought you out. He’d knock on your door at night, asking softly if you were okay. He’d linger in the kitchen while you cooked, trying to spark conversations. He’d find excuses to be near you, to fill the silence with his presence. But you… you had already built your own wall, one just as high and cold as the one he’d once kept.

And the cruel irony was not lost on you. When you had been willing, he wasn’t. Now that he was ready, you no longer had the strength.

Two years into a marriage that had begun as nothing but duty, you found yourselves standing on opposite sides of the same battlefield—he reaching forward for a chance at something real, and you slowly slipping out of reach. What had once been a story of one-sided devotion had reversed, and neither of you knew if it was already too late.