112
New York was grey.
Even when the sun peeked out and spilled itself across the penthouse windows, everything felt muted. The days blurred together; appointments, meetings, charity dinners, the click of camera shutters, the low hum of reporters asking questions he no longer cared to answer.
Alexander sat at the edge of the bed, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The shadows beneath his eyes had deepened, his cheekbones sharper, his movements slower.
The doctor’s voice echoed in his ears from last week’s visit. "You're not improving, Alexander. In fact, you’re losing more muscle than you should. We can adjust your medication again, but…"
But. There was always a but. He'd die soon, nothing was going to change that. He has only gone to the hospital because his nose wouldn't stop bleeding and it was inconvenient, nothing more.
He clenched his jaw, fingers pressing into his knees. It wasn’t the pain that drove him to madness, it was the silence in his home. He had dreams too, once. He had a name picked out for the child he hadn't given a chance to live.
Ali, if it was a boy, to honor Yalda's heritage.
But that was long gone.
He told himself he had done the right thing. That Yalda deserved to be loved fully, deserved a man who didn't treat her like he had, a man who was kind and caring, not cruel, not cold.
He had let her go for her own good.
And yet, he still woke up each morning with her name in his chest and the shape of her body in his sheets.
He closed his eyes.
The door creaked behind him, but he didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. Maya’s perfume preceded her. Sweet, expensive, suffocating.
“You missed your appointment today,” she said quietly, heels clicking against the hardwood.
“I rescheduled.”
“You’ve rescheduled three times this week.”
He finally turned, eyes tired but sharp. “Is that why you came? To remind me of my calendar?”
She walked to him, sitting on the opposite edge of the bed. Her dress clung to her body, makeup flawless. She looked like the ideal socialite, beautiful, poised, persistent.
“You haven't returned any of my calls,” she said, voice soft, too soft. “Are you avoiding me?”
“No.”
She tilted her head. “Then what’s wrong?”
He stood and walked to the window, leaning against the sill. The city pulsed beneath him; cars, lives, neon dreams.
“I’m tired, Maya.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
She exhaled sharply and stood. “You’re pushing me away.”
“I’m not pushing you anywhere,” he said, tone neutral. “I just don’t have it in me to entertain delusions anymore.”
She flinched. “Is that what you think this is? Delusion?”
He didn’t answer.
Maya’s voice trembled. “She left, Alexander. She didn’t choose you. I’m still here.”
He turned then, face unreadable. “Yalda didn’t leave. I let her go. And what did I say about bringing her up?"
And besides, she was here because she was delusional enough to think that he'd marry her perhaps. She was here because she had her own plans, she was nothing but a scheming golddigger and he was very well aware of that.
Silence stretched between them. Finally, Maya stepped back, her voice cool. “You’re still in love with her.”
“I never stopped.”
Maya swallowed, her pride flickering across her face. “Then you’re a fool.”
He didn’t argue. He was a fool, yes, but so was she; she was a fool for thinking she could ever truly have him, that he would ever see her as anything more than a whore.
When she left, slamming the door behind her, Alexander sat back down and covered his face with his hands, he blew out a breath exasperatedly.
His body was failing him. His heart had been long gone. And still, he told himself he had done the right thing.
That night, the city outside his windows blinked in white and gold and red. The noise of it filtered faintly into his penthouse, muted and distant. He left the television off. Didn’t touch the lights. The bedroom was dark, save for the faint halo of the skyline.
He lay back, arm tucked behind his head, the ache in his spine dull but ever-present. It had become background noise, just like everything else.
He didn’t expect to sleep.
He hadn’t in days. Not really. Every time he closed his eyes, the same images would come: screaming, flames, smoke, Yalda’s voice begging him to let her stay.
But tonight—
Tonight was different. He didn’t dream of fire, the smoke, he didn't dream of the pain. He dreamt of her. Not the bloody hallucinations or the twisted nightmares that haunted him, but her.
Yalda.
Her scent, soft and clean, a mix of jasmine and something citrusy and warm. Her smile, not the forced one she gave the world, but the half-asleep one, the one she wore in the morning when her face was still puffy from sleep and her body curled into his chest.
He felt her warmth beside him.
He saw the way she’d snuggle into him at night, fingers curling against his ribs like he was something safe. Like he wasn’t the monster he believed himself to be. Like he was the one being protected. Her breaths, slow and even, her legs tangled with his, her skin warm and real.
Her voice, whispering something kind, something warm, quiet and unsure but real.
Then there were her eyes. Not in love, not smiling, no, far from that. The way she looked at him when she was on her knees, looking up. Worshipping. Open. Vulnerable. Wanting him.
He stirred in bed, half-asleep, half-lost in the dream. His fingers twitched at his side. He hadn’t felt this in years. Not peace, no. Not quite.
But something close. Something gentler.
For the first time in so long, he didn’t feel like he was being dragged beneath the earth. He dreamt of her instead; of good times. And somewhere, between the fog of sleep and the haze of memory, he realized—
Perhaps he had overcome his trauma.
Or perhaps it had only been replaced by another; Something softer. Something sadder. Something named Yalda.
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