Alexander remained silent, inviting him to continue.
Zayn looked down at his hands, as though measuring the weight of what he was about to say.
“I find myself… watching her,” he said quietly. “Listening for her steps in the hallway. Noticing when she is tired before she speaks. I anticipate her needs without intention.”
He paused, jaw tightening.
“And when she is hurt… or frightened… something in me fractures.”
Alexander’s expression softened, though he did not interrupt.
“I believed,” Zayn continued, voice lower now, “that what I felt was obligation. Gratitude. Responsibility toward the mother of my children. And guilt for my past mistakes and leaving her alone.”
He lifted his gaze again, the truth now unavoidable.
“But that is not what this is.”
Silence held the room.
Alexander
