Be a Man
The rooftop was dressed in fairy lights and curated charm. Laughter floated like perfume, and the city below blinked like a tired constellation. Haim stood near the railing, sipping ginger ale, watching people perform their personalities like borrowed costumes.
Then Sera arrived.
Not dramatically just enough to be noticed. Sera’s dress was silver, soft, and deliberate, catching the light like a secret. Her hair fell in quiet waves, her eyes lined with restraint, her smile calibrated to suggest warmth without invitation. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. People made space for Sera without knowing why.
Sera moved through the crowd like a whisper touching no one, yet rearranging the air.
She stopped beside Haim at the railing. Close enough to feel her perfume jasmine, maybe, or something rarer. She didn’t look at him. She looked at the city, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of the glass.
“You like quiet,” Sera said eventually, voice barely above the music.
“I do,” Haim replied.
Sera nodded, as if that confirmed something already decided.
They didn’t talk much. Sera asked simple questions like where Haim worked, what he read, whether he liked dogs. Her voice was gentle, her laughter brief, her gaze steady. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t overshare. She listened like someone who already knew the answers.
When someone called Sera’s name, she turned with a smile that felt rehearsed. Then she looked back at Haim, as if to say, Don’t worry. I’m still here.
By the end of the night, Sera had Haim’s number. By the end of the week, Sera had Haim’s rhythm. By the end of the month, Sera had Haim’s heart.
They met again at a café Sera chose minimalist, quiet, with soft jazz and overpriced tea. Sera wore beige and gold, her hair tied loosely, her eyes unreadable.
“I like this place,” Sera said, stirring her drink. “It doesn’t try too hard.”
“Like you,” Haim said.
Sera smiled. “You think I don’t try?”
“I think you don’t need to.”
Sera looked at Haim for a long moment. “That’s dangerous,” she said softly. “To believe someone doesn’t need to try.”
Haim didn’t understand. But Haim didn’t ask.
Their courtship was quiet. No dramatic declarations. No late-night confessions. Just a slow unfolding walks, shared playlists, glances that lingered longer than necessary.
Sera never asked for flowers. Sera never posted about Haim. Sera didn’t introduce Haim to friends. But Sera showed up on time, dressed with intention, eyes full of suggestion.
One evening, Sera invited Haim to her flat. It was spotless. Not lived-in, but curated. A single orchid on the windowsill. Books arranged by color. A fish tank with two silent swimmers.
“I like things that don’t talk,” Sera said, feeding them.
“Why?”
“They don’t lie.”
Haim fell in love the way people fall asleep slowly, then all at once. He didn’t notice the absence of questions. He didn’t mind that Sera never spoke about her past.
Sera never said “I love you.” But Sera looked at Haim like he was chosen. And that was enough.
They married two months later.
The ceremony was small. Not intimate just imaculate . Sera had orchestrated every detail: the venue, the music, the guest list, even the hues. Guests arrived in coordinated tones muted golds, soft charcoal, ivory silk. It resembled a gallery opening more than a union.
Haim’s sister wasn’t invited.
“She’s too reactive,” Sera had said. “This day needs equilibrium.”
His mother sat near the exit. Not by accident. Sera had revised the seating chart three times, citing symmetry, then acoustics, then “emotional flow.”
“It’s not personal,” she said, adjusting the fall of her sleeve. “It’s just... cleaner this way.”
Haim nodded. He didn’t want to disrupt the arrangement.
But in the months leading up, he’d uncovered quiet truths. That Sera hadn’t gone to university. That she’d finished high school and never pursued more. That she’d grown up in a rented flat with her grandmother, surrounded by plastic flowers and calendars from expired years. That her parents had split early, and she rarely spoke of them. Her maternal uncle, recently remarried, was the only relative she mentioned with warmth.
“She understands me,” Sera had said once. “More than anyone.”
Haim didn’t press. He didn’t want to puncture the surface.
The music began. Sera walked down the aisle like a verdict elegant, composed, unreadable. Her dress was ivory silk, long-sleeved, with a neckline that whispered restraint. Haim wore a tailored black suit, chosen by Sera, with a pocket square that matched her bouquet.
They looked perfect.
And Haim, standing at the altar, told himself this was devotion. That distance was design.
They flew to Santorini. Sera had chosen the destination, the villa, even the itinerary. “No surprises,” she’d said. “Surprises ruin rhythm.”
The villa was whitewashed, perched above the caldera. Every morning, Sera arranged the breakfast tray herself figs, almonds, and toast cut into perfect squares. Haim offered to help once. She declined.
“You’ll misalign the plates.”
They didn’t fight. They didn’t laugh either. They walked the cobbled streets like tourists in a museum—admiring, never touching. Sera took photos of doors. Blue ones. Always blue.
She posted them with captions like “Symmetry is a kind of mercy.”
Haim began to notice things. That she never swam. That she didn’t read. That she asked questions with no follow-up. That she didn’t know what “brunch” meant until the waiter explained it.
.
One night, he asked what she dreamed of doing.
“I’m already doing it,” she said, sipping wine she didn’t finish. “I’m living well.”
He nodded. But something in him recoiled.
The next morning, she wore a linen dress the color of bone and asked him to photograph her against a wall of bougainvillea.
“Make sure the flowers don’t overpower the frame.”
He took the photo. She looked perfect.
And Haim, holding the camera, wondered if he was documenting a life or auditioning for one.
They were halfway through the honeymoon when Haim asked about fishing.
“There’s a boat,” he said. “Leaves before sunrise. I could go out, catch something real.”
Sera didn’t look up. “We have a shoot at ten.”
“I’ll be back before then.”
She stood, walked over, and took his phone from the table.
“You’ll get distracted. Just stay with me today.”
He blinked. “You’re keeping my phone?”
“Only for today,” she said. “You’ll thank me later.”
He didn’t.
That afternoon, they posed in front of a blue door. Sera fixed his collar, told him how to stand, where to look. The photographer clicked. Sera smiled.
But Haim kept glancing at the sea at the boats, the rods, the men waiting for something to bite.
That night, he asked for his phone.
She handed it back. “You were calmer today.”
He stared at her. “I wasn’t calm. I was erased.”
She frowned. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m not. I just wanted one morning. One thing that was mine.”
“You’re here to build memories.”
“Whose?”
She didn’t answer.
And Haim, holding his phone, felt like a guest in his own life.
Next day,
They went to a restaurant near the cliff’s edge. White tablecloths, lemon trees, a view that begged for vows. Sera wore a linen dress and her wedding ring ,a thin band of platinum she’d chosen herself.
Halfway through the meal, she touched her neck and frowned.
“It’s hot,” she said. “I feel heavy.”
She opened her bag, slipped off her necklace, her earrings, even the ring.
“I’ll keep them here,” she said, folding a napkin around the pieces. “Too much metal ruins the mood.”
Haim watched her tuck the bundle into her purse like it was a receipt.
The next morning, she was brushing her hair when she paused.
“Oh,” she said. “I think I lost my jewelry.”
Haim turned. “What do you mean?”
“I must’ve left it at the restaurant. Or maybe in the taxi.”
“Your wedding ring?”
She nodded, calm. “It’s just a ring.”
He stared at her. “You don’t want to call them?”
She shrugged. “If it’s gone, it’s gone. I don’t want to chase objects.”
He didn’t speak.
She smiled. “We still have the photos.”
He looked at her at the bare hand, the unbothered tone, the absence dressed as elegance.
They returned from Santorini with matching luggage and mismatched expectations.
Haim’s house stood waiting two stories, stone façade, a garden he’d planted himself. It wasn’t grand, but it held history. His childhood bike still leaned against the shed. The kitchen smelled faintly of cumin and old laughter.
Sera stepped inside, looked around once, and said:
“This won’t work.”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
She walked through the living room like a realtor inspecting a teardown. “The layout’s wrong. The light’s uneven. The energy feels... stale.”
“It’s my house,” he said. “I grew up here.”
She opened a window, frowned at the view. “You’ll have to demolish it.”
He laughed, thinking she was joking.
She wasn’t.
“You want me to erase my childhood?”
“I want you to evolve.”
They moved into the rental two weeks after landing.
Sera had already hired the architect. She showed Haim the plans open concept, minimalist, “clean energy.” He nodded, but didn’t speak.
Before the move, she handed him a list.
“No old furniture. No family photos. No clutter. We’re starting fresh.”
He stared at the list. “What about my things?”
She didn’t look up. “We agreed. No baggage.”
He didn’t argue. He packed in silence.
But the night before the move, he wrapped the fish tank in towels and placed it in the back seat of his car. Rafi was coming.
At the new house, Sera spotted it immediately.
“You brought the fish?”
“Yes.”
“I told you..”
“You told me what you wanted. I didn’t agree.”
She walked over to the tank, stared at the fish. “It’s ugly. It doesn’t belong here.”
“It’s mine.”
“It’s a distraction.”
“It’s the only thing I didn’t have to ask permission for.”
She didn’t respond. She turned and walked into the kitchen.
That night, Haim placed the tank on the windowsill. He fed Raf slowly, watching the fish swim in lazy circles.
This wasn’t a home. It was a showroom.
Sera slept like a stone.
Not because she was tired. Just because she could.
She didn’t set alarms. Didn’t say goodnight. And in the mornings, she didn’t say goodbye.
Haim would get dressed quietly, eat alone, and leave without a word. She’d still be in bed curled up, phone beside her, blinds drawn.
He used to kiss her forehead before leaving. Now he didn’t. She didn’t notice.
When she finally woke usually around noon she’d call him. If he didn’t answer, she’d call again. And again.
Then the messages would start.
“Where are you.” “Why aren’t you picking up.” “You’re ignoring me.”
If he didn’t respond fast enough, she’d accuse him.
“You don’t care.” “You’re hiding something.” “You’re punishing me.”
It didn’t matter if he was in a meeting. Or driving. Or just trying to breathe.
She wanted access. And if she didn’t get it, she made it personal.
He started leaving his phone in the car. Started turning it off during lunch. Started counting how many minutes he could go without hearing from her accusations.
After a month, people at work started noticing.
Haim was quieter. Distracted. Always checking his phone.
He’d step out during meetings to take calls. Come back looking drained. Sometimes he wouldn’t come back at all.
His manager asked if everything was okay. He said yes. It wasn’t.
He missed deadlines. Forgot appointments.
One afternoon, a colleague pulled him aside.
“You alright?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
He didn’t answer.
He couldn’t explain that his phone wasn’t just a phone anymore. It was a leash. And every missed call came with a fight.
One afternoon, she called six times in twenty minutes. He let it ring. She showed up at his office.
“I was worried,” she said.
“You were controlling,” he said.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t call someone six times unless you’re trying to prove something.”
“I needed to talk.”
“You needed to win.”
She stared at him. “You’re being cruel.”
He looked down. “You’re being loud.”
That night, he moved the fish tank to the far corner of the bedroom. Rafi swam in slow circles, the only thing in the house that didn’t ask questions.
Sera walked in, saw the tank, and frowned.
“You still have that thing?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t belong here.”
“I do.”
She didn’t respond.
She just turned off the light and went to bed.
Haim arrived home just after nine.
The porch light was off. The door was locked. A duffel bag sat beside the mat neatly zipped, deliberately placed.
He didn’t knock. He called.
Sera answered on the second ring. Her voice was flat, almost rehearsed.
“Riya’s staying here. She had a blowout with her husband.”
“So you locked me out?”
“She needed space.”
“And I didn’t?”
“I figured you could crash at your friend’s.”
“You didn’t even ask.”
“I didn’t want to get into it.”
“You didn’t want to be accountable.”
She didn’t respond.
He stared at the bag. A shirt. Socks. Charger.
Haim stood there for a while. The bag at his feet felt like a verdict.
Haim hadn’t told anyone.
He’d been staying in a spare room above a mechanic’s shop bare mattress, no curtains, no questions. He went to work. He came back. He ate alone. He didn’t speak unless spoken to.
On the third evening, he stopped by a corner store for toothpaste.
That’s when Asir saw him.
“Haim?”
Haim turned, startled. “Hey.”
“You look wrecked.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. What happened?”
Haim didn’t move.
He stood outside the store, toothpaste still in hand, staring at the pavement like it might offer a better answer than Asir had.
“Call Riya’s husband,” Asir had said. “Tell him to come get her. Then go home.”
But Haim didn’t reach for his phone.
Asir waited. Then gestured toward his car. “Come on. Sit.”
They got in. Asir didn’t start the engine. He just let the silence settle.
Haim leaned back, eyes on the dashboard.
“She didn’t even ask,” he said finally.
“I know.”
“She didn’t explain. She didn’t open the door.”
“She didn’t respect you.”
Haim nodded slowly.
“I keep thinking maybe it was urgent. Maybe Riya was falling apart.”
“Then she should’ve called her own family. Or a hotel. Or asked.”
Haim didn’t respond.
Asir turned slightly in his seat. “You’re not the villain here. You’re not the guest. You’re the one who got evicted without cause.”
“She’ll say I’m being dramatic.”
“She already rewrote the rules. You’re just refusing to play along.”
Haim looked out the window. The street was quiet. The store lights flickered.
“I don’t want to be cruel,” he said.
“You’re not. You’re being clear.”
Haim exhaled.
Asir started the engine. “Let’s drive. You think better when the road moves.”
They pulled out of the lot. The city passed by in fragments—headlights, balconies, closed doors.
Haim didn’t speak for a while.
Then: “What if she doesn’t let me in again?”
“Then you knock louder.”
Haim arrived home just after nine.
The porch light was off. The door was locked. A duffel bag sat beside the mat neatly zipped, deliberately placed.
He didn’t knock. He called.
Sera answered on the second ring. Her voice was flat, almost rehearsed.
“Riya’s staying here. She had a blowout with her husband.”
“So you locked me out?”
“She needed space.”
“And I didn’t?”
“I figured you could crash at your friend’s.”
“You didn’t even ask.”
“I didn’t want to get into it.”
“You didn’t want to be accountable.”
She didn’t respond.
He stared at the bag. A shirt. Socks. Charger.
Haim stood there for a while. The bag at his feet felt like a verdict.
Haim hadn’t told anyone.
He’d been staying in a spare room above a mechanic’s shop bare mattress, no curtains, no questions. He went to work. He came back. He ate alone. He didn’t speak unless spoken to.
On the third evening, he stopped by a corner store for toothpaste.
That’s when Asir saw him.
“Haim?”
Haim turned, startled. “Hey.”
“You look wrecked.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. What happened?”
Haim didn’t move.
He stood outside the store, toothpaste still in hand, staring at the pavement like it might offer a better answer than Asir had.
“Call Riya’s husband,” Asir had said. “Tell him to come get her. Then go home.”
But Haim didn’t reach for his phone.
Asir waited. Then gestured toward his car. “Come on. Sit.”
They got in. Asir didn’t start the engine. He just let the silence settle.
Haim leaned back, eyes on the dashboard.
“She didn’t even ask,” he said finally.
“I know.”
“She didn’t explain. She didn’t open the door.”
“She didn’t respect you.”
Haim nodded slowly.
“I keep thinking maybe it was urgent. Maybe Riya was falling apart.”
“Then she should’ve called her own family. Or a hotel. Or asked.”
Haim didn’t respond.
Asir turned slightly in his seat. “You’re not the villain here. You’re not the guest. You’re the one who got evicted without cause.”
“She’ll say I’m being dramatic.”
“She already rewrote the rules. You’re just refusing to play along.”
Haim looked out the window. The street was quiet. The store lights flickered.
“I don’t want to be cruel,” he said.
“You’re not. You’re being clear.”
Haim exhaled.
Asir started the engine. “Let’s drive. You think better when the road moves.”
They pulled out of the lot. The city passed by in fragments—headlights, balconies, closed doors.
Haim didn’t speak for a while.
Then: “What if she doesn’t let me in again?”
“Then you knock louder.”
Haim made the call.
Riya’s husband arrived the next morning.. Just a quiet car ride and a brief exchange at the door.
Sera didn’t say much.
She watched Riya leave, then turned to Haim like nothing had happened.
“You could’ve stayed longer,” she said.
“I shouldn’t have had to leave at all.”
She didn’t respond.
That night, Haim slept in his own bed. The sheets smelled like lavender and someone else’s comfort. He didn’t ask who had used his pillow.
Two days later, Asir called.
“You’re not going to like this,” he said.
“What?”
“I ran into Riya’s husband. He said there wasn’t a big fight. Just a disagreement. Nothing serious.”
Haim frowned. “Then why did she leave?”
“He said Sera called her. Told her she deserved better. Told her to pack a bag and come over.”
Haim didn’t speak.
“She didn’t react,” Asir said. “She instigated.”
Haim sat down.
“She didn’t make space for someone in crisis,” he said quietly. “She created the crisis.”
Asir paused. “He also said something else.”
“What?”
“He said, ‘Tell your friend thank you. For not making it worse.’”
Haim looked around the room.
The room hadn’t changed. He had.
It was Saturday.
The curtains were drawn just right. The cushions were fluffed. The floor had been swept twice. Even the fruit bowl had been rearranged—bananas on top, apples underneath, no bruises showing.
Sera had cleaned everything.
Not out of guilt. Not out of pride. Just to make sure no one could say the house wasn’t perfect.
Haim wasn’t home. He’d taken extra shifts at the warehouse. Said he needed the hours. Didn’t say he needed the distance.
Around noon, his parents arrived.
They didn’t call ahead. His mother carried a cloth bag with oranges and a small container of lentils. His father walked beside her, quiet as always.
Sera welcomed them in.
She offered tea. She smiled. She asked about the weather.
Sera called Haim through his mom's phone. He picked up.
Sera’s face filled the screen.
She was smiling wide, rehearsed, too bright for the hour.
Behind her, Malira his mother sat stiffly on the couch. Sera was perched on her lap, one arm draped around her shoulder like a child posing for a family portrait.
“Just check how close I am to your mom,” Sera said, tilting the camera. “You worry too much.”
Haim didn’t speak.
Malira didn’t either.
Her hands were folded in her lap. Her eyes didn’t meet the camera. Her smile was polite, but tight—like she’d been asked to hold a pose she hadn’t agreed to.
Sera leaned in, resting her head against Malira’s shoulder.
“She loves me,” she said. “You just imagine things.”
His father was in the background, standing near the window, arms crossed. He didn’t look at the camera. He didn’t interrupt. But he didn’t leave either.
The call lasted forty-three seconds.
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