Steven Arka woke before the alarm.
He didn’t open his eyes immediately. The fan above the bed rotated in a steady rhythm, its soft mechanical hum blending with Alya’s breathing beside him. Deep. Even. Slower than usual.
She slept better when he was there.
Or maybe he only believed that because the nights she woke were the ones he remembered more clearly.
He opened his eyes.
Her arm rested across his chest, loose but deliberate, as if she had reached for him in sleep. Her face was relaxed in a way it rarely was during the day. No tension between her brows. No faint crease at the corner of her mouth.
He watched her for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Sometimes he wondered if he was too observant. Or if everyone noticed these things and just didn’t dwell on them.
He moved carefully, lifting her arm and sliding out from beneath it. The mattress dipped slightly; she shifted but didn’t wake.
Good.
The room was small but orderly. His clothes folded on the shelf. Her paint-stained jeans hanging over the chair, stiff from dried acrylic along the thighs. The faint smell of thinner still clung to them.
He rinsed rice in the sink. Water running. Grains knocking lightly against metal.
Routine settled him.
He preferred predictable sequences. Heat. Steam. Measured portions. Variables reduced.
At 7:21 a.m., Alya shuffled out of the bedroom, hair loose and slightly tangled, eyes half-open.
“Morning, Steve.”
Her voice was lower in the morning. Less guarded.
“Morning, Lia.”
She leaned against him without asking, forehead resting briefly against his shoulder.
He let her.
Her weight was light but present. He registered the contact, then the duration. Not clinging. Not distant.
Stable.
“I have a wall near the old café today,” she said. “Big one.”
“Outdoor?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll be tired.”
“I’m always tired.”
She said it lightly. But not joking.
He poured her a glass of water. She drank slowly, eyes unfocused, as if calculating something he couldn’t see.
“Rina registered for university already,” she said.
The spoon paused mid-rinse in his hand.
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“That’s good.”
“She’s younger than me.”
He turned off the tap.
“You’re not late.”
She didn’t respond immediately.
“They’re already posting campus photos,” she continued. “Orientation week. New friends.”
He sat at the table and began eating.
College again.
Not unexpected.
He measured his tone carefully.
“College doesn’t disappear,” he said. “It’s not a deadline.”
“It feels like one.”
He looked at her.
Her jaw was set slightly tighter than usual.
“Why?”
“Because if I don’t start now, when? After five more years? Ten?”
“When you’re ready.”
She gave a small smile.
“That sounds easy for you to say.”
He didn’t argue.
He believed what he said.
Or at least he believed it more than the alternative.
College was valuable. Yes.
But stability came first. Needs before upgrades. Reduce risk before expansion.
Unless he was rationalizing caution.
He pushed that thought aside.
The distributor office smelled faintly of cardboard and instant coffee.
Six sales staff. Three drivers. Three companions.
Numbers behaved better than people.
Steven logged into the inventory system and checked route allocations. A complaint surfaced before ten.
“The warehouse loaded wrong again.”
He didn’t raise his voice.
“What time was the update?” he asked.
They checked.
The change had come after departure.
“It’s timing,” he said. “Not intention. Adjust tomorrow.”
Conflict dissolved quickly.
He noticed that most arguments were misaligned timelines, not malicious intent.
If he removed accusation, tension reduced.
He wondered if that principle applied everywhere.
At 11:48 a.m., his phone vibrated.
Lia:
Hot. I regret wearing black.
He pictured her in the sun, squinting, paint on her hands.
Steven:
Drink water.
Five minutes.
Lia:
Boss said next month bigger project if this goes well.
Steven:
That’s good.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared.
Reappeared.
Lia:
But it’s still not stable.
He stared at the message.
Not stable.
He could respond in several ways.
Encourage risk.
Reassure emotionally.
Redirect structurally.
Steven:
It’s building.
Ten minutes passed before she replied.
Lia:
Building feels slow.
He didn’t answer immediately.
Because he agreed.
But agreeing would validate urgency.
And urgency led to rushed decisions.
Or maybe he was projecting his own fear of instability onto her.
He locked the phone.
Returned to the spreadsheet.
That evening, she returned home smelling faintly of paint thinner and sun.
Her hands were stained blue near the nails.
“Show me,” he said.
She scrolled through photos of the mural. Bright gradients. Clean lines. Movement across brick.
“It’s good,” he said.
“You always say that.”
“It is.”
She studied his face longer than usual.
Checking sincerity.
He held her gaze steadily.
He meant it.
They ate simple food in silence.
Later, while she lay on the bed scrolling through social media, she said, “If I apply this year, I’ll be twenty-two when I start.”
“And?”
“That feels old.”
“It’s not.”
She turned toward him.
“You think I should wait, don’t you?”
He paused.
“I think you shouldn’t rush.”
“That’s different.”
He considered the distinction.
Maybe it was.
“Why is it urgent?” he asked.
She stared at the ceiling.
“Because if I stop moving, I’m scared I won’t start again.”
He absorbed that.
That wasn’t about college.
That was about fear of inertia.
“You’re moving,” he said. “You’re working. You’re improving.”
“That’s work, Steve. Not future.”
He leaned back in the chair.
“Future isn’t a race.”
“For you, maybe.”
He watched her quietly.
She wasn’t attacking him.
She was testing him.
Or maybe she was just exposing doubt.
“Do you feel stuck?” he asked.
“No.” She paused. “I feel like time is ahead of me.”
He didn’t respond immediately.
Time ahead of me.
He experienced time differently.
For him, time was something to structure. Allocate. Manage.
For her, time seemed like something chasing.
He wondered which one was more accurate.
“You’ll still support me if I apply, right?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She searched his eyes again.
“You won’t think I’m being reckless?”
“I’ll think you’re choosing.”
Even as he said it, he evaluated the sentence.
Was that neutral enough? Too detached? Too conditional?
She relaxed slightly and reached for his hand.
He held it.
Her fingers were warm.
In that moment, nothing felt broken.
Just slightly misaligned.
Maybe misalignment was normal.
Maybe all relationships carried different time perceptions.
Or maybe he was underestimating the gap.
Outside, a motorcycle passed and faded into the night.
Inside, they remained under the same roof.
For now, that felt sufficient.
