Four weeks.
That's how long it has been since everything changed shape without asking permission.
Four weeks since silence became normal in my life.
I sit in my office chair, laptop screen glowing in front of me, but nothing on it actually registers anymore. Numbers, reports, contracts—everything blends into one long blur of responsibility I handle out of habit, not attention.
People think I'm focused.
They think I'm back to "normal."
They're wrong.
I've just become quieter about the chaos.
The door opens, but I don't look up immediately.
I already know who it is.
Heavy steps. Controlled. Familiar.
My father.
And beside him—slower, more deliberate—the old man who rarely enters any room without making it feel smaller.
My grandfather.
Only then do I finally lift my gaze.
Neither of them speak at first. That's the problem with people like them. They don't waste words. They measure everything first.
My father glances at the screen, then at me.
"You're working too much," he says flatly.
I lean back slightly. "That's what work is for."
My grandfather's eyes narrow. "That's not what we meant."
I don't respond.
Because I already know what they mean.
They mean her.
Luna.
Even when nobody says her name, it still fills the room like smoke.
My father steps closer. "You haven't gone to see her today."
"I know."
"That wasn't a question," he replies.
A pause.
I finally shut the laptop halfway, not because I'm done—but because continuing feels pointless now.
"She's recovering," I say calmly. "She doesn't need me hovering."
My grandfather lets out a quiet laugh. Not amused. Observing. "That's not what you believe."
I meet his gaze. "It is."
Silence stretches.
They both see through it.
That's the problem with family like mine. You can lie to the world, but not to them.
Not about control.
Not about distance.
And definitely not about her.
After a moment, my father speaks again. "You've become cold."
I almost smile at that.
Cold.
If only they knew what warm used to feel like.
"I'm being careful," I reply.
My grandfather tilts his head slightly. "Careful men don't isolate the one person they care about."
That lands sharper than I expect.
But I don't react.
Not outwardly.
Inside, something tightens.
Because he's right.
And I hate that he's right.
When they leave, the room feels even larger.
Or maybe emptier.
I stare at the door for a long time after it closes.
Then I reach for my phone.
There are messages.
Updates.
Reports.
Zade has been consistent.
Too consistent.
Luna's condition. Her mood. Her complaints. Her energy levels.
Everything except the one thing I actually want to know.
Does she think about me?
I don't ask that.
I never ask that.
Instead, I close the phone and toss it onto the desk like it's nothing.
Like I don't care.
Like it doesn't matter.
But it does.
It all does.
Later that day, Zade walks in without knocking.
He looks tired.
Not physically.
Mentally.
That kind of tired that comes from watching too much and understanding too much.
"She's mad again," he says immediately.
I don't look up from the document I'm pretending to read. "She's always mad."
"She's mad at you."
That gets my attention.
Slowly, I lift my eyes.
"And?"
Zade hesitates. That's new.
"She asked why you haven't gone to see her."
I lean back.
There it is.
The thing I've been avoiding.
Not danger.
Not enemies.
Not business.
Her question.
Simple.
Direct.
Dangerous.
I keep my voice even. "Tell her I'm busy."
Zade stares at me. "That's it?"
"That's it."
He doesn't move immediately. Like he's waiting for more.
But I don't give it.
Finally, he nods and leaves.
And the second the door shuts, I exhale slowly.
Because my answer wasn't for him.
It was for me.
Busy is easier than honest.
By evening, the house feels different.
Everyone notices it.
They just don't say it directly.
My mother watches me from the hallway for longer than usual. Like she's trying to recognize who I've become.
My father doesn't mention it again, but his silence is heavier than words.
Even Alex, when he passes by, pauses.
"You're getting worse at pretending," he says casually.
I glance at him. "I'm not pretending."
He smirks slightly. "That's the problem."
And then he walks away before I can respond.
Night falls.
The office lights stay on longer than they should.
I stay longer than I should.
Because going anywhere else feels unnecessary.
Eventually, I open Zade's latest message again.
"She's improving physically. Mentally restless. Asking to leave hospital. Frequently irritated. Mostly due to boredom."
I read that line twice.
Mentally restless.
I almost laugh.
Of course she is.
Luna doesn't survive stillness.
She burns in it.
I imagine her in that room. Pacing. Complaining. Arguing with nurses. Probably terrorizing Kiara with emotional speeches about escaping.
The thought almost softens something in me.
Almost.
But I stop it.
Because softness is exactly what got her hurt before.
And I can't afford that again.
Not with her.
Not ever.
A knock interrupts my thoughts.
This time I don't respond immediately.
The knock comes again.
I already know who it is.
I open the door.
My grandfather stands there.
He looks at me for a long moment.
Then he says quietly, "You're punishing yourself."
I don't answer.
He steps closer. "Or her."
That lands harder.
I look away briefly.
"She's safe," I say.
"She's alive," he corrects. "There's a difference."
A pause.
Then he adds, "And she notices your absence more than your protection."
That stays in the air long after he leaves.
When I return to my desk, I don't sit.
I just stand there.
Because for the first time in weeks, I can't decide what I'm doing anymore.
Protecting her?
Or pushing her away?
Maybe both.
Maybe neither.
My phone lights up again.
Another update.
Zade:
"She asked again today why you're not coming."
I stare at the message.
Long enough that the screen dims.
Then I finally put the phone down.
And for the first time in four weeks—
I don't have an answer ready.