Morning didn't arrive gently.
It crept in through the curtains, thin and pale, touching the edges of a night that had never really ended. The room looked the same, but everything in it felt heavier—wrinkled sheets, swollen eyes, air thick with things unsaid.
Rhea was the first to move.
She sat up slowly, every muscle aching like she hadn't rested at all. Her face felt tight, eyes burning as she wiped at them with the heel of her hand, smearing away the last traces of tears she hadn't even realized were still there.
"It's six," she said quietly, voice flat. "Mom wakes up at six-thirty."
Ling stirred instantly, like she hadn't been asleep for even a second. She pushed herself up too, hair disheveled, eyes red, jaw tense.
"I'll go," Ling said, already reaching for her jacket.
She slipped it on, movements automatic, practiced—like leaving was something she'd trained herself to do without hesitation.
Rhea stood with her back half-turned, tying the robe tighter around herself, still not looking at Ling.
Ling hesitated.
Her hand paused on the zipper. She swallowed, then spoke, softer than she'd been all night. "Won't you… leave me at the door? Just—"
Just a few steps together.
Just proof that she wasn't being sent away entirely.
Rhea turned then.
Her face was composed in that brittle way Ling recognized too well—calm on the surface, everything else buried underneath. Her eyes flicked to Ling's face for barely a second before looking away again.
"You already know the gate," Rhea said. "Go yourself."
The words weren't cruel.
That somehow made them worse.
Ling nodded once. She didn't argue. Didn't push. She pulled the jacket closer around herself like it could hold something together that was already cracking.
"Okay," she said quietly.
She walked toward the door, every step measured, controlled. When her hand touched the handle, she paused—not turning around, not trusting herself to.
"…Rhea," Ling said, voice low, steady only because she forced it to be. "Last night—"
"Don't," Rhea interrupted, still not looking at her. "Not now."
Ling closed her eyes.
"Alright."
The door opened softly. Closed just as softly.
The sound echoed anyway.
Rhea stood alone in the room, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the place where Ling had been moments ago. Her chest tightened, breath catching despite her effort to stay composed.
She told herself it was necessary.
She told herself it was space.
She told herself she was protecting both of them.
Outside, Ling walked down the path she knew by heart, the early morning air cold against her tear-stained face. She didn't look back at the house. She didn't slow down.
Both of them carried the same truth into the morning:
The night hadn't resolved anything.
It had only shown them how close they were to losing each other—and how afraid they both were to say the one thing that might change everything.
Rhea got ready mechanically.
Cold water on her face. Concealer she barely bothered to blend properly. Hair tied back tighter than usual, like control could be pulled into place if she tried hard enough. The mirror showed her the truth anyway—swollen eyes, lashes still clumped, lips pressed too thin.
She told herself it was enough.
Downstairs, the house was already awake.
Kane sat at the breakfast table, posture perfect as always, tea untouched, eyes sharp in that way that never missed anything important. The moment Rhea stepped into the room, Kane looked up.
And saw everything.
Her gaze lingered—just a second too long—taking in the puffiness, the stiffness in Rhea's shoulders, the way she avoided eye contact.
"Sit," Kane said calmly.
Rhea obeyed, taking the chair across from her, hands folding in her lap. "Morning," she said, forcing normal into her voice. "I had a headache. Couldn't sleep much."
Kane's expression didn't change.
She stood and walked around the table, fingers gently lifting Rhea's chin without asking. Kane's eyes studied her face closely—too closely—for bruises that weren't there, for stories that hadn't been told.
"I don't think you're well," Kane said softly.
Rhea pulled her chin back, the movement subtle but firm. "I'm okay."
Kane hummed, unconvinced. Her thumb brushed under Rhea's eye where the skin was still tender. "Headaches don't make eyes look like this."
Rhea's jaw tightened. "It was a long night."
Kane returned to her seat, watching Rhea over the rim of her cup. "With Zifa?"
"Yes," Rhea said immediately. Too immediately.
Kane's eyes narrowed just a fraction. "And you slept?"
Rhea forced a nod. "Eventually."
Silence settled between them—thick, observant.
Kane took a sip of tea. "You know," she said lightly, "when you lie, you touch your fingers together like that."
Rhea froze.
Then she deliberately relaxed her hands, unclenching them from each other. "You're imagining things."
Kane smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.
"Eat something," Kane said. "University will drain you if you go like this."
Rhea nodded, reaching for toast she didn't want. Her stomach churned, but she forced herself to take a bite.
Kane watched her chew, calculating.
"Call me if your headache gets worse," Kane added. "I don't like being surprised."
"I won't," Rhea said quietly.
But as she stood to leave, Kane's voice followed her—gentle, precise, dangerous.
"And Rhea," Kane said, "whatever kept you awake last night—make sure it doesn't start controlling you."
Rhea paused only for a heartbeat.
Then she walked out, shoulders straight, carrying her secrets like bruises no one was allowed to see.
Roin was already waiting in the car, engine humming softly, hands resting on the steering wheel like he'd been there longer than necessary. The moment Rhea opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, his eyes flicked to her face.
He noticed immediately.
The puffiness around her eyes. The dullness she couldn't hide no matter how straight she sat.
"Your face is swollen," Roin said, voice lowered—not gentle, not harsh. Observing. "You didn't sleep."
Rhea reached for the seatbelt, clicking it into place with more force than needed. "I'm fine."
Roin frowned slightly as he pulled the car out. "You don't look fine. You can skip uni today if you want."
The offer lingered in the air, layered with something else—control disguised as concern.
Rhea stared out the window. The gate passed behind them, iron bars sliding shut like punctuation. "No need," she said. "I'm going."
Roin glanced at her again, slower this time. "You don't have to push yourself."
"I'm not," she replied, sharper now. "I just don't want to stay home."
That, at least, was true.
Roin nodded, lips pressing together. He didn't push further, but his grip on the wheel tightened. "You sure no didn't say anything?" he asked casually. "You were with her, right?"
"Yes," Rhea said immediately.
Roin hummed. "Must've been intense."
Rhea didn't answer.
The car moved through the early morning traffic, sunlight catching on glass and metal, too bright for how heavy everything felt. Rhea rested her head lightly against the window, the coolness grounding her.
Her phone stayed silent in her bag.
She didn't check it.
Roin watched the road, jaw tight, thoughts running darker than his voice allowed. Every now and then his eyes flicked to her reflection in the glass—withdrawn, distant, somewhere he couldn't reach.
"You know," he said after a while, tone almost too calm, "you can talk to me. You don't have to carry everything alone."
Rhea closed her eyes briefly. "I know."
But she didn't mean it the way he wanted her to.
The university gates appeared ahead, tall and familiar. As Roin slowed the car, Rhea straightened, pulling her mask of composure back into place.
Another day.
Another lie.
And somewhere between where she'd been left that morning and where she was headed now, something inside her felt dangerously thin—stretched between loyalty, love, and the quiet fear that everything was starting to crack.