Farla
Husband didn't love her, will you love her?
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Farla married him because her families said it was the right thing. But her heart—her foolish, hopeful heart—thought love could grow. For a year, she gave him everything. Her time. Her loyalty. Her love.
Until one night.
He came home late. She sat quietly on the couch, heart racing at the sound of the door opening. But he didn’t look surprised to see her waiting.
She swallowed hard.
He sighed, not out of regret, but exhaustion.
She stared at him, her throat closing up.
He paused.
That night, something in her broke.
The days that followed were a blur of silence and pain. His pictures with her flooded her feed—his girlfriend's smile in his arms, the way he looked at her, like she was his whole world. She cried until she couldn’t anymore.
A few days later, seeking a moment of normalcy in the chaos of her shattered life, she ducked into a quiet, rain-drenched cafe. She ordered a coffee she barely touched, staring blankly at the steam. When it was time to pay, she reached into her bag, but her fingers found only emptiness. She had left her purse at home, a casualty of her own distracted grief.
As panic began to tighten in her chest—the final straw in a week of disasters—a calm voice spoke from the table beside her.
She looked up. A man sat there, his suit dark and sharp, his expression unreadable as he watched her with eyes that seemed to see far too much. He placed a bill on the counter before she could protest.
Until one night.
He came home late. She sat quietly on the couch, heart racing at the sound of the door opening. But he didn’t look surprised to see her waiting.
I need to talk to you,he said, standing in the doorway.
She swallowed hard.
What is it?
He sighed, not out of regret, but exhaustion.
Farla, this marriage… it’s not working. I’ve met someone else. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but… I love her.
She stared at him, her throat closing up.
What about me?
He paused.
You’re a good person. But I never asked for this marriage, and I never wanted you.
That night, something in her broke.
The days that followed were a blur of silence and pain. His pictures with her flooded her feed—his girlfriend's smile in his arms, the way he looked at her, like she was his whole world. She cried until she couldn’t anymore.
A few days later, seeking a moment of normalcy in the chaos of her shattered life, she ducked into a quiet, rain-drenched cafe. She ordered a coffee she barely touched, staring blankly at the steam. When it was time to pay, she reached into her bag, but her fingers found only emptiness. She had left her purse at home, a casualty of her own distracted grief.
As panic began to tighten in her chest—the final straw in a week of disasters—a calm voice spoke from the table beside her.
Let me.
She looked up. A man sat there, his suit dark and sharp, his expression unreadable as he watched her with eyes that seemed to see far too much. He placed a bill on the counter before she could protest.