Chapter 6 up
“Where are you going this early in the morning?”
Clark’s voice came from the kitchen doorway—heavy, edged with suspicion.
Nyla paused for a moment. The knife was still in her hand, gripping a half-sliced tomato. The cutting board in front of her was clean and orderly—too orderly for a home that was quietly falling apart. She didn’t turn around right away.
“Out,” she answered shortly.
Clark leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes traced Nyla’s back, as if searching for old cracks—fear, unease, or panic, the reactions he usually saw whenever he raised his voice.
But this time, there was nothing.
“You’re not having breakfast with me?” he asked, his tone sharpening. “Since when are you so busy?”
Nyla turned off the stove, wiped her hands with a clean cloth, then faced Clark. Her face was calm, her expression neutral—and that was precisely what unsettled him.
“Since I realized my time is no longer meant for waiting,” she said.
Clark let out a small, cynical laugh. “You’re still angry about Selena?”
“I’m not angry,” Nyla replied quietly. “I’m done.”
That single word made Clark straighten.
“Done with what?” he asked quickly.
Nyla picked up a small bag from the chair and placed her phone and wallet inside with measured movements. “Done hoping.”
She walked past Clark without touching him. There was no anger, no pleading glance—only a distance she deliberately created.
Clark turned around. “You can’t act like this. We’re still married.”
Nyla stopped at the door. She turned her head slightly, just enough to reveal a faint smile Clark had never seen before.
“Being married doesn’t mean I have to disappear as a human being,” she said. “I’ll be back before nightfall.”
The door closed softly behind her.
But to Clark, the sound was louder than any slam.
Nyla’s car pushed through the dense morning traffic. Her hands gripped the steering wheel—not out of nervousness, but because she was holding back something heavier than tears.
She hadn’t cried since the night Clark almost slapped her.
Not because it hadn’t hurt.
But because something had died along with the pain.
Memories flickered through her mind: the first day of marriage, Clark’s warm smile, promises about the future. They all felt like they belonged to someone else. The old Nyla had spent herself entirely trying to become the perfect wife—leaving no space for herself.
The car stopped in front of an old three-story building. Its outer paint had begun to fade, its windows plain and unremarkable. There was no large sign, only a small plaque near the door:
Arden Research Collective.
Nyla stared at the name for a long moment.
Her family name.
Her name.
She stepped out of the car, her breath heavier than usual. Every step toward the door felt like walking through a past she had buried with her own hands.
The door opened.
“Nyla?” a middle-aged man’s voice sounded hesitant. “Nyla Arden?”
She turned. The man stared at her with widened eyes, then smiled in disbelief.
“Yes,” Nyla said. “I’m back.”
He let out a small, emotional laugh. “We thought you’d never come back.”
Nyla swallowed. “So did I.”
She was led into a room filled with whiteboards, research files, and the scent of old paper. Everything felt foreign yet familiar at the same time. On the wall, a paper still hung—her name listed as the lead author.
“I didn’t quit because I failed,” Nyla said softly, more to herself than anyone else. “I quit because I chose the wrong person.”
No one judged her.
No one interrupted.
And for the first time, Nyla felt… accepted.
Meanwhile, Clark sat in his study, his jaw clenched. The watch on his wrist showed eleven in the morning. Nyla hadn’t sent a message. Usually, by this hour, his wife would already be asking whether he’d eaten lunch.
His phone vibrated.
Selena.
“Clark,” the woman’s voice sounded anxious. “She’s really changed. I feel like she’s planning something.”
Clark snorted. “She wouldn’t dare do anything.”
“But I’m scared,” Selena pressed. “The look in her eyes yesterday—that wasn’t the look of someone who’s lost.”
Clark fell silent for a moment.
He remembered Nyla’s face that morning. Calm. Cold. Unbothered.
“I’ll handle her,” he finally said. “Just focus on your pregnancy.”
After the call ended, Clark stood and walked into the living room. The house felt too quiet. Too empty.
For the first time, he realized that Nyla hadn’t just been his wife—she had been the organizer of his life, the keeper of his balance, the buffer that absorbed the chaos he created himself.
And now, that buffer was no longer working.
Night had fallen when Nyla returned home.
Clark was already waiting in the living room. Standing. Tense.
“Where have you been?” he asked sharply.
Nyla removed her shoes, hung her bag calmly. “Somewhere that reminded me who I was before I got married.”
Clark stepped closer. “I don’t like this change in you.”
Nyla lifted her face and met his gaze directly.
“I don’t like your betrayal either,” she replied calmly.
Clark fell silent.
Nyla stepped toward the stairs, then stopped.
“Clark,” she said without turning around. “I’m not leaving. But I’m not staying the way I used to.”
