The world around her wavered, tilting at odd angles as if reality itself had been knocked off balance. She felt herself slipping—her consciousness a fragile thread fraying at the edges. The dimly lit room blurred, shadows stretching and shrinking in a dizzying dance.
Her body no longer felt like her own. It was as if she were floating, detached from herself, yet unbearably heavy at the same time. Every limb ached with exhaustion, her muscles trembling from the effort of simply standing. Her breaths came in short, uneven gasps, burning against her throat.
Then—
The warmth of strong arms engulfed her, catching her before she collapsed entirely.
Silas.
A faint, familiar scent wrapped around her, grounding her in the chaos. It was crisp, like rain-soaked earth on a stormy night—cool, distant, but unwavering. It reminded her of late autumn evenings, of the rare moments when she could watch him from a distance, pretending he was close even when he wasn't.
Her head lolled against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat a quiet rhythm against her cheek.
She wanted to speak—to tell him she was fine, that she didn't need to be saved. But the words tangled in her throat, lost somewhere between exhaustion and the fever slowly consuming her.
Instead, memories flickered at the edges of her mind.
The sharp sting of her father's palm against her cheek.
The startled gasps of the onlookers.
The suffocating silence that followed.
A dull throbbing radiated from the spot where he had struck her, the heat of humiliation burning even deeper. Her father had never hit her before. Not once. His cruelty had always been measured in cutting words, in looks of disdain, in the subtle ways he made sure she knew she was never enough.
But tonight—
Tonight, he had snapped.
The betrayal of it settled heavily in her chest, a different kind of pain that no physical wound could compare to. She had always known that she was a disappointment to him, but a part of her had still held on to some foolish, desperate hope that he wouldn't cross that line.
She had been wrong.
A bitter laugh bubbled in her throat, but it never made it past her lips.
Maybe she had finally pushed too far.
Maybe this time, she had really broken whatever thin, fragile thread still connected them.
Maybe after this she won't have a father anymore!
But then—why?
Why did it hurt so much?
A shiver ran through her, making her body tremble against Silas's. Even in her fevered haze, she felt the way his grip shifted, tightening slightly, his arms adjusting to hold her more securely.
He was warm.
But he was also cold.
Detached.
Unfamiliar in his familiarity.
He moved carefully, each step slow and measured, as if she were something fragile, something that could shatter at the slightest misstep. The sensation of being lifted—of being carried so effortlessly—made her feel smaller than she ever had before.
She hated it.
She hated feeling weak.
Hated that it was Silas who had to see her like this.
Her fingers twitched against the fabric of his shirt, wanting to push him away, to reclaim the space between them. But her strength had long since abandoned her.
The world tilted again.
A bed.
Soft sheets against her skin.
Familiar, yet foreign.
Silas's scent lingered in the air—crisp linen, faint traces of cedarwood, and something deeper, something uniquely him.
Her lashes fluttered, but her body refused to obey. Her limbs felt impossibly heavy, her mind a hazy blur of exhaustion.
Then—
Something cool pressed against her forehead.
She flinched slightly at the sensation, the sharp contrast between fever and cold jarring.
A touch.
Gentle.
Careful.
She barely registered the weight of the damp cloth being pressed lightly to her burning skin, the careful way Silas tended to her. It felt surreal—out of place.
Not him.
Not the Silas she knew.
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came.
The darkness pulled at her again, and this time, she let it take her.
---
Time was a cruel, twisting thing.
She drifted between fevered dreams and fleeting moments of wakefulness, caught somewhere between reality and memory.
Shadows whispered at the edges of her mind—familiar voices, blurred faces.
Her father's voice, sharp and unforgiving, echoing through the years.
Her mother's, softer but laced with something worse than anger. Disappointment.
And then—
Silas.
Not speaking.
Not moving.
Just there.
A silent presence, steady and unwavering.
She could feel him. Not in the way she felt warmth or cold, but something nameless.
He had never been one for words, and yet, even in the quiet, his presence was deafening.
She stirred once, her lips moving, murmuring words that even she couldn't understand.
A confession?
Yes, may be!
Or had her words simply vanished into the void, like every other unspoken feeling she had buried over the years?
A weak breath escaped her lips.
It didn't matter anymore.
Nothing did.
She was so, so tired.
So she surrendered herself to the darkness once more.
---
The first thing she noticed was the quiet.
Not the suffocating, heavy kind of quiet that came with loneliness, but something different. Something softer.
Her body still ached, her limbs weak and sluggish, but the fever—
It was gone.
She let out a slow breath, her fingers twitching against the blanket. The fabric was unfamiliar, but the scent wasn't.
Silas.
Blinking against the morning light, she tried to sit up. Every movement sent a dull ache through her limbs, but she pushed through it.
Then—
She saw him.
Standing near the door.
Silent. Still.
Watching.
Something in his expression was unreadable, his sharp features cast in the soft glow of early morning light. There was no irritation, no impatience—just something distant, something careful.
Her heart clenched.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, hesitantly, she parted her lips.
"…Thank you."
The words were barely above a whisper, but they carried the weight of everything she couldn't say.
Silas didn't respond. Not immediately. His gaze lingered on her for a fraction too long—
Then he turned away.
"I made breakfast," he said, his voice as clipped and controlled as ever.
And before she could say anything else—
He left.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence returned.
But this time, it felt different.
Not empty.
Not lonely.
Just quiet.
Ayla sat there for a long time, staring at the place where he had stood.
Her fingers curled into the blanket, gripping the fabric tightly.
She had spent years believing she was alone.
That no matter how much she tried, no matter how much she gave, she would always be standing at the edges of people's lives—watching, waiting, never truly belonging.
But maybe…
Maybe she had been wrong.
Because even when she had stopped believing in herself—
May be she still had a chance.
And maybe, just maybe—
That was enough.