The Shape of Want
Aubrey's Pov
I had rehearsed the words so many times that they felt less like a confession and more like a wound I kept pressing, just to see if it still hurt.
Tell me about your feelings.
Whether I wanted to hear them or not, it no longer mattered.
Tell me about your heart, even if it costs me mine.
I had never prayed the way I prayed to meet her. I wasn't someone who asked for miracles or mercy. But for her, I did. I stood in rooms full of noise and asked God for one thing only—that she would exist somewhere within my reach.
In my mind, I asked her to look at me. Not gently. Not carefully. I wanted no softening of the truth, no protection from what would undo me. I imagined meeting her eyes and asking her to tell me what she felt.
Because the conflict was hollowing me out. Because I had carried it alone for too long. And if this was where it ended, then it deserved honesty—not silence.
I told myself I would be clear about this part.
I would never ask again if her heart did not align with mine. I would not plead or linger in doorways, hoping she might turn back. I would not build a home out of uncertainty. If her heart stood elsewhere, I would step away with whatever dignity I had left.
But if it did align—
I would ask her to tell me now.
Because I knew I would only be brave enough to ask once.
I wouldn't ask for promises. I wouldn't ask her to stay. I would ask only because not knowing was worse than the answer, because the silence between us had begun to feel like a quiet cruelty.
In my head, I asked her to tell me what she felt. To say it once. To say it honestly. And I promised myself I would live with whatever truth she gave me.
In the end, I said nothing.
And that was the cruellest part of all—
because those were the words I had wanted to say to her.
I resisted the urge to drive to her apartment. I resisted the urge to follow her, to ask why she was lying when it was already clear that she had fallen for me as well.
The way she clutched my coat, the brief press of her forehead against my chest—those were not accidents. They were confirmation enough.
I opened another champagne bottle and poured it into my glass, the soft pop echoing through the quiet. I had left my entire universe for her; I was even ready to embrace the violin again if it meant she would be here with me.
I stood by the huge window, the city stretched beneath me in a blur of lights, my reflection faint against the glass. One hand rested in my pocket, my eyes unfocused, my mind replaying everything that had happened tonight—every word, every silence, every moment I pretended not to feel.
Anger sat heavy in my chest, sharp and restless, colliding with the ache I didn't know how to quiet. I was furious—with her, with myself, with the way love had found a way to ruin my sense of control. My heart felt fractured, pulled in opposite directions, but loving her was never the part that wavered. I loved her with an intensity that frightened me, with a depth that made walking away feel like self-amputation.
I tightened my grip around the glass, the champagne untouched now, forgotten. Every part of me wanted to break something—distance, silence, my own restraint. I wanted answers. I wanted the truth. I wanted her.
My phone buzzed against the counter.
I didn't look at it immediately. When I finally did, the screen lit up with her name, and for a moment, everything else faded.
Emma.
I agree to the three weeks.
That was all.
No explanation. No softness. Just acceptance.
My breath caught, slow and uneven.
I leaned back against the counter, closing my eyes briefly, as if that might steady the war inside my chest. She was still here. Not fully, not honestly—but she hadn't walked away.
And that was enough to keep me standing.
For now.
Michael arrived without warning, the soft click of the door cutting through the silence. His gaze moved briefly over the room—the empty champagne bottles on the counter, the untouched glass in my hand, the city still burning outside the windows.
"How did it go?" he asked, calm as ever.
I didn't answer right away. I stared out at the skyline, the lights blurring together, my jaw tight. There was too much to say, and none of it fit cleanly into words.
"She's lying," I said finally. My voice came out flatter than I felt. "Or at least trying to."
Michael didn't interrupt. He never did.
"I know she feels it," I continued, anger threading through every word. "I felt it. The way she held onto me. The way she couldn't let go. That wasn't nothing."
I set the glass down, harder than necessary. "But she's terrified of it. Of what it means."
Silence stretched between us.
"And you?" Michael asked.
"I left everything for her," I said quietly. "I would've taken back the violin if it meant she stayed. I would've rewritten my entire life."
That made him look at me.
"There's a condition," I added, reluctant now. Saying it out loud made it real in a way I wasn't ready for. "Three weeks."
Michael's expression didn't change, but his focus sharpened. "Three weeks of what?"
"Dating," I said. The word felt fragile in my mouth. "No labels. No promises. Just… us. Three weeks to see if this is real."
"And you agreed?"
"She did," I said. "After everything, she still agreed."
Michael nodded slowly, processing it. "And how do you feel about that?"
I looked back at the city, my reflection fractured in the glass.
"Angry," I said. "Heartbroken." Then, after a beat, "Still in love."
Michael stayed silent.
The bottles stood between us like evidence of a war already fought—and three weeks that would decide whether I survived loving her.
Steam still lingered in the bathroom when I stepped out of the shower, the mirror clouded, the air warm against my skin. Water traced slow paths down my body, catching along the clean planes of muscle before falling away. My shoulders were still damp—broad, solid, filling the space without effort—the kind built from discipline rather than indulgence. Strength sat quietly there, contained, restrained.
The towel hung low on my hips, clinging where the water hadn't yet dried. My abdomen tightened briefly as I moved, every line sharp and deliberate, muscle carved clean beneath skin that bore no marks, no history except control. I dragged a hand through my hair once, leaving it damp and disordered, refusing to tame it further. When I caught my reflection, my green eyes held me there—clear, sharp, unguarded in a way nothing else about me ever was. They had always been my tell.
I dressed slowly, methodically, as if ritual might steady what I refused to name. It didn't.
Later, the penthouse had gone quiet, the city bleeding light through the windows. I sat alone on the edge of the bed, phone in my hand, rereading her message until the words felt carved into me.
I agree to the three weeks.
Nothing else. No explanation. No reassurance. Just permission.
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling, jaw tight. Three weeks wasn't hesitation—it was a challenge. One she knew I wouldn't refuse.
I read it again.
Three weeks to prove what she was already afraid to admit. Three weeks where I wouldn't dilute myself or retreat, where I would let her see exactly what it meant to be wanted with intention.
I wasn't foolish enough to think it would be easy.
But I was certain of one thing.
I locked the phone and stood, the city humming below, resolve settling cold and steady in my chest.
Emma would be mine.
Ayah's Pov
It is said that God creates one heart for another to love.
I used to believe that meant certainty. Ease. A quiet knowing that settles into the soul without resistance. I did not know it could feel like this—like devotion and fear sharing the same breath.
Ya Allah,I have already given my heart.Please have mercy on me,and let it rest for a little while.
I did not ask to stop loving him. I was not brave enough for that kind of lie. I asked only for stillness—for a pause in the storm that had taken residence inside my chest.
Because loving him felt inevitable.And choosing him felt terrifying.
I pressed my forehead against the coolness of the night air and closed my eyes, letting the city fall away. If this were written for me, I would endure it. And if it was not, then I prayed God would take what I had already given and guard it more gently than I ever could.