Chapter 26: The Quiet Before
Ozaire and the rest had gone out to grab dinner for all of us, insisting I stay comfortable at the hospital. Reese decided to stay behind, lounging beside me as she placed her order with Raiden over the phone.
After she hung up, she turned to me, a thoughtful look in her eyes.
"So... what exactly is your relationship with him right now?" she asked softly. I was surprised or mainly confused. I know what she meant, me and Ozaire.
I exhaled slowly, unsure how to answer. My gaze drifted to the hospital ceiling, as if the answer might be hiding in the tiles.
"It's… complicated," I began. "We're not in a defined relationship—at least not the kind people usually talk about. We're close, probably closer than we've ever been. There's something real between us, especially now, with the baby. We've built this quiet understanding, this... trust."
I paused, trying to find the right words.
"We're not just friends anymore, but we're also not officially together. We haven't really talked about labels or what happens after this. It's like we're somewhere in between. Safe. Familiar. But undefined."
Reese nodded slowly, her expression unreadable, but I could tell she was listening.
"It's messy," I added with a small, tired smile. "But it feels honest."
Reese's eyes softened with understanding. "I see. Well, it's important for you both to figure things out for yourselves—especially now, with the baby."
I nodded slowly, her words settling deep in my chest. "Yeah… we're still figuring things out, but we're both committed. At the very least, we want to build something solid—for our son."
She offered me a reassuring smile, the kind only a true friend could give, and we let the conversation drift to lighter things—nursery colors, name suggestions we never used, and how Raiden panicked when he first held the baby. The mood lifted, laughter quietly echoing between us. For a little while, it felt like the world had softened around the edges.
But later, when I was alone again, the silence in the room was louder than ever.
I couldn't stop replaying the conversation with Reese.
What are you to him, really?
The question gnawed at the corners of my thoughts. I stared down at my hands resting over the light blanket, my body still recovering, but my mind racing. I knew how I felt about Ozaire. I knew what he meant to me.
But did he see me the same way? Or was I just the mother of his child? A responsibility he willingly took on?
We're close.
We care.
We're trying.
But none of those were answers. They were placeholders for something we hadn't yet dared to define.
I glanced over at the empty space beside the hospital bed, imagining him sitting there again—quiet, steady, always showing up.
But is showing up enough?
The question lingered, heavy and restless, as I stared out the window and wondered just how long I could live in the in-between before needing something more.
One quiet evening, after Oliver finally fell asleep, I stepped out of the bedroom to grab a quick snack. The condominium was dimly lit, and the only glow came from the television in the living room. Ozaire was on the couch, his focus completely absorbed by whatever he was watching.
As I approached, I caught a glimpse of the screen.
My heart sank.
There she was—her. The girl in the video. His ex-girlfriend. The same one he got drunk over the night Oliver was conceived. The woman who, in another version of life, might have been his wife right now.
I stood there frozen for a second, my chest tightening. He must've thought I was asleep. And I should be. Morning would come quickly with Oliver waking early, but suddenly, I wasn't tired anymore.
I slowly backed away, careful not to draw attention—until I bumped into the edge of the dining table. The crash was sharp, a jarring noise in the silence.
Ozaire's head whipped around. He quickly turned off the TV, the screen going black. Then, without a word, he flicked on the lights.
I grabbed the first excuse I could. "What are you doing up so late?" I asked, reaching for an apple from the table and pretending I hadn't seen anything.
He stood up from the couch, tone casual. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
I shrugged lightly. "Just… hungry, I guess."
"Want me to cook something?" he offered, already half-turning toward the kitchen.
I shook my head quickly. "No, no—this apple's fine. I need to start watching what I eat anyway. Postpartum weight and all."
He paused, watching me for a moment, concern flickering behind his eyes. "You sure?"
"Yeah. I'm good." I gave him a tight smile, doing my best to sound casual.
He nodded, but I could tell something in him didn't quite buy it. "Alright. But if you need anything—really—I'm here."
"Thanks," I murmured.
As he sat back down, I turned toward the hallway, apple in hand, my mind spinning. I couldn't unsee what I saw. Couldn't unfeel the sudden swirl of doubt in my stomach.
I knew we'd need to talk about it eventually—about her, about us, about where we really stood. But right now, I didn't want to poke the wound, not when everything felt so fragile. Not when Oliver was finally sleeping peacefully in the next room.
So for now, I chose silence. I chose to focus on the present.
But deep down, I knew—questions left unanswered don't just fade. They grow.
Over the next few days, I found myself rejecting all of Ozaire's acts of service towards me. Whether he offered to cook, help with the baby, or simply lend a hand around the house, I turned him down with a polite but firm insistence.
I needed space to process my thoughts and feelings about our situation. I felt a growing distance between us, which was uncomfortable but necessary for me to understand where I stood with him. Each time he reached out, I would offer a brief smile and a gentle refusal, trying to keep things as normal as possible while sorting through my own confusion.
Ozaire seemed to respect my wishes, though I could see the concern in his eyes. He continued to be supportive and present, but I could tell he was unsure of what to make of my sudden withdrawal.
One evening, after several days of maintaining my distance, I found Ozaire waiting for me by the door when I came home from a quick errand. He looked serious, and there was a sense of determination in his stance.
"Ophira," he said softly but firmly, "we need to talk."
I hesitated, my eyes shifting away. "About what?"
"About us," he replied. "I've noticed you've been pushing me away lately, and I need to understand why. Is there something you're not telling me?"
I looked down at my hands, feeling a lump form in my throat. "It's just... I've been trying to figure out what we are. I saw you watching that video, and I realized I don't know where I stand with you. I don't want to keep going on like this, pretending everything is okay when I'm not sure what's happening."
Ozaire's expression softened, and he stepped closer. "I understand. It's been confusing for me too. But I want to make things clear. I care about you, and I want to be here for you and our son. I just didn't know how to express it without overstepping."
I met his gaze, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. "So, what are we going to do about it?"
Ozaire took a deep breath. "Let's talk things through and figure out how we can move forward together. We're a family now, and I want us to be strong and united. Let's work on this together."
I nodded, feeling a mix of relief and anxiety. It was a start, and for now, that was enough.
"Sometimes, the loudest questions are the ones left unanswered, waiting to be heard."