NOT IN CONTROL
I sat on the kitchen counter, my legs swinging lazily in the air, his phone resting in my hand since mine was still charging somewhere in the room.
The kitchen smelled faintly of spices and heat, the sound of oil crackling softly in the pan filling the quiet space between us.
He stood there, back slightly bent, focused on cooking his usual… questionable creation.
I sighed internally.
Another day.
Another plate of his bland masterpiece.
I scrolled through his phone, stopping at a random ASMR cooking video. The kind where everything looks perfect. Clean cuts, satisfying sounds, beautiful presentation.
“Look at this,” I said, stretching my hand toward him, angling the phone so he could see.
He glanced at it briefly, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the edge of his shirt before looking back at the pan.
“I’m not professional enough to do that,” he said simply, pointing at the screen.
“Then I will,” I muttered, wiggling my legs slightly, already imagining myself doing something better than him.
He turned his head slowly, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Last time you tried, you ended up fainting,” he said flatly.
I scrunched my nose immediately.
“I was weak then.”
He didn’t reply.
Just gave me that look—
The one that clearly said I will not trust you
I rolled my eyes and went back to scrolling, letting the sounds of chopping and sizzling fill the background.
For a moment, everything felt… normal.
Strangely normal.
Like this was how mornings were supposed to be.
And then—a vibration.
The phone buzzed softly in my hand.
I glanced at the screen.
“A message,” I muttered casually. “Someone’s texting you.”
Without thinking much, I tapped into his WhatsApp.
My eyes fell on the contact name.
Friend 4.
I blinked once.
Then again.
What kind of person saves contacts like that
My gaze shifted to the profile picture.
A girl.
I stared at it for a second longer than needed.
I tilted my head slightly, my fingers pausing mid-air.
“Friend… 4?” I repeated under my breath, a faint frown forming.
And for some reason—
That name bothered me more than it should have.
“Bro, who is Friend 4?” I asked, my brows knitting together as I stared at the screen.
He didn’t even turn properly this time.
Just that tired look again.
“Don’t call me bro,” he muttered, like he had repeated it a thousand times already.
I clicked my tongue, unimpressed, my eyes still glued to the phone.
“Why are you getting offended?” I asked casually. “What do you want me to call you then… dear husband?”
I wiggled my eyebrows at him with a teasing grin.
He slowly turned his head toward me, squinting his eyes like he was questioning every decision that led him here.
“One day, I will surely throw you out through that window,” he said, pointing toward the small grilled kitchen window—the one only that skinny stray cat could manage to squeeze through.
I followed his finger, looking at it seriously for a second.
“I am not that skinny,” I said, nodding thoughtfully at the grills.
“Then I’ll mix poison in your food,” he muttered, turning back to the stove like he was done entertaining me.
I leaned forward slightly, completely unfazed.
“Do it later,” I said dismissively, waving my hand. “But first tell me—who is this weirdo Friend 4?”
I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes at his back now.
“Why is she saved like that?” I continued, my tone changing slightly, curiosity mixing with something else I didn’t quite understand.
“Friend 1, Friend 2, Friend 3… did you run out of names or what?”
He turned to me finally, his patience clearly hanging by a thread.
“You are only allowed to scroll through my YouTube… not my WhatsApp,” he muttered, walking toward me with slow, controlled steps.
I looked up at him, completely unbothered.
“As if I am interested in your boring life,” I said, shrugging lightly. “I’m just curious… who is this Friend 4?”
“Can’t you understand from the name?” he replied dryly. “Friend number four.”
I raised my brows at him.
“She has a name, right?”
“This is easier to remember,” he said, like it was the most logical thing in the world. “The fourth person who became my friend in that new hospital.”
I hummed softly, my gaze dropping back to the phone.
“I thought she was your girlfriend,” I muttered absentmindedly as I opened their chat.
The conversation was… painfully empty.
.......
...........
I blinked.
“That’s it?” I whispered to myself.
Two weeks ago.
Nothing after that.
I scrolled up slightly.
And then—
Her new message.
......
He groaned immediately, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
“Why did you open it now?” he snapped. “She’ll think I’m online and wait for my reply.”
I looked at him, frowning slightly.
“Why are you being so rude?” I muttered. “She seems kind.”
He didn’t respond.
Just stared at me for a second, like he was debating whether to argue or just give up.
I looked back at the phone again.
At that simple message.
At the way she typed—extra letters, casual, easy.
Something about it felt… different.
Warmer than his dry “Hi.”
I don’t know why—
But a strange discomfort crept into my chest.
I pressed my lips together slightly before speaking again, my tone trying to stay normal.
“Reply to her,” I said, handing the phone toward him.
He didn’t take it.
“Why?” he asked flatly.
I shrugged, trying to act like it didn’t matter.
“Because she messaged you.”
“And… it’s basic manners.”
But even as I said it—
My fingers tightened slightly around the phone.
Because a small, quiet part of me…
Didn’t actually want him to reply.
I got down from the counter and walked straight to him, holding the phone like it was something important.
“Reply to her—”
“Go and eat,” he cut in immediately, not even looking at me.
I rolled my eyes.
“I am going to reply for you,” I said stubbornly, already turning away.
Before he could stop me…
Before he could start one of his long lectures about how I am ruining his sanity—
I ran.
Straight to the bedroom.
I sat on the bed, the phone still in my hand, a small grin playing on my lips.
And then—
ting
Another message.
.....
....
My eyes widened slightly.
“Ohhhh…” I whispered under my breath, leaning back a little.
“Misterrrrrrr!” I shouted.
Within seconds, he rushed in, panic evident on his face.
“What happened?”
I held the phone up to him like it was evidence of a crime.
“I think she likes you,” I said, my tone suddenly serious.
He looked at the screen.
Then at me.
For a moment—
His expression didn’t change.
Then he snatched the phone from my hand and started typing quickly.
I immediately stood up and moved closer, peeking into the screen like it was my birthright.
.....
....
I huffed loudly.
“Why are you being so rude? You are not even busy,” I complained.
“I am busy,” he replied dryly. “Who will wash the dishes?”
He switched on the fan, the blades starting to spin above him as he dragged the chair and sat down beneath it, running a hand through his face like he was already exhausted.
I climbed back onto the bed, sitting cross-legged right in front of him.
“I think she likes you,” I repeated, this time slower.
He looked at me, narrowing his eyes like he was questioning my intelligence.
“I know,” he said plainly. “That’s why I am avoiding her.”
I frowned immediately.
“Why?”
He stared at me like I had just said the dumbest thing possible.
“Are you dumb or acting like one?” he asked, irritation clear in his voice.
“I am fucking married and how—” he stopped mid-sentence, his words hanging in the air.
The room fell silent.
My fingers slowly tightened over the bedsheet beneath me as I looked at him.
“Trying to act loyal, ah?” I asked, forcing my tone to stay casual, almost playful, as if the question meant nothing.
But it did.
He looked at me for a moment, not immediately answering. His eyes didn’t carry anger this time, just a quiet seriousness that made me feel like I had asked something deeper than I intended.
“I don’t owe loyalty to you,” he said slowly.
The words were straightforward. Honest.
And they should not have affected me.
But something in my chest shifted anyway.
He let out a small breath and continued, his voice softer now, more controlled.
“But I don’t want a girl to have feelings for someone who is already married.”
I blinked slightly, my gaze unconsciously lifting to meet his.
There was no arrogance in his face.
No pride.
Just… a simple sense of responsibility.
“I don’t want to give her any kind of false hope,” he said, his fingers loosely curling as if he was choosing his words carefully. “If I talk normally, if I respond even a little, she might misunderstand it. She might think there is a chance.”
He paused for a second, then looked away.
“So I am avoiding her. It is better if she thinks I am rude… or arrogant. At least that way, she will stop trying.”
Silence settled between us after that.
His words were not loud.
But they stayed.
I watched him for a moment, something unfamiliar building quietly inside me.
A strange discomfort.
A strange… awareness.
“You can simply tell her that you are married,” I muttered after a while, my voice softer than before, lacking its usual sharpness.
It sounded like a solution.
But even as I said it—
It didn’t feel that simple anymore.
“Tell her that I am married?” he let out a small, almost tired chuckle.
It wasn’t humorous.
It was… heavy.
“Nobody in the hospital knows that I am married,” he continued, his voice quieter now, as if he was admitting something he had been carrying for a while. “Everyone thinks I am single… and I want them to think that way.”
I frowned slightly, watching him.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped together as he stared at the floor for a second before looking at me.
“Because if I tell them I am married…” he said slowly, “the next question will be—who is she?”
His gaze held mine.
“Introduce her to us.”
He let out a breath, shaking his head slightly.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, his voice carrying a hint of frustration now. “Take you there with me and introduce you like everything is normal?”
His eyes flickered with something sharper.
“And they will all stand there… surprised… that I married the richest businesswoman.”
There was no pride in that statement.
Only distance.
Only discomfort.
He turned his face away after that, jaw tightening slightly as if the thought itself irritated him.
Silence filled the room again.
I sat there, staring at him, something unfamiliar pressing against my chest.
I realized…
In his world—
I wasn’t someone he could show.
He held the phone out to me again, as if nothing had changed.
As if his words hadn’t just settled somewhere deep inside me.
I didn’t take it.
I turned my face away from him and lay down on the bed instead, pressing my face into the pillow like I could hide from everything—him, this conversation, and whatever was rising inside me.
My chest felt tight.
Too tight.
My eyes burned suddenly, without permission, without reason.
And that…
That made it worse.
Because I didn’t understand it.
I didn’t want to understand it.
It felt like I was reacting to something I had no right to feel.
Like I was expecting something…
“You didn’t eat?” he asked from behind me.
His voice wasn’t harsh.
It was normal.
And somehow that normalcy irritated me even more.
“Get out,” I muttered, my voice muffled against the pillow.
I pressed my face deeper into it, as if that could stop the tears from slipping out.
But they did anyway.
Stubborn.
Unwanted.
Why is this affecting me so much?
I hated this feeling.
Hated how weak it made me feel.
Hated how something so small…
Something so meaningless…was shaking me like this.
Because this wasn’t supposed to matter.
He wasn’t supposed to matter.
Why did it hurt to hear that he didn’t want the world to know about me?
Why did it sting… like I had been hidden away?
My fingers clenched the bedsheet tightly.
“I hate this…” I whispered into the pillow, my voice breaking slightly despite myself.
Not him.
Not the situation.
But this feeling.
This unfamiliar… uncontrollable ache.
Because for the first time—
I wasn’t in control of what I felt anymore.