"Contrary to popular belief, they're not the same." But he could see why and how it could be mistaken as the same. This concept hadn't come to him as a personally learned lessor but one taught by his beloved sister. She demonstrated the difference - and still did to date.

"Putting it behind you means you're still able to look in the rearview - to glance at it, acknowledge it, talk to it - even. Putting it to rest is burying it and leaving it with the rest of them, thrown in the cemetery."

Tristan placed his now closed notebook onto the side table next to him, the small table lamp providing warm, comforting light. "I wouldn't say medication is the coward's way out. Instead, I'd argue it helps those who struggle to either be introspective, or feel emotion or, at least, to lighten the load of the weight of the world on their shoulders." The man gave a small shrug of his shoulder. "Sometimes just being able to breath better can put things in a different perspective."

He didn't want Neomie to retreat - she was finally opening up. So he chose a simplistic question as not to scare her off. "When do you feel the lightest? Can you think of a recent time?"

"But it's common to visit cemeteries, yes? To stand with the past and speak to it even though its voice is gone?" A counter meant less to argue than to unspool a pesky tangle of thought. The idea of burying something held specific connotations for her, more physical than metaphorical. Still, she found little comfort in his view of medication, able to strike each possible use as 'not applicable' to herself. Somewhere, a far off, muted thought asked if it was a self punishment of sorts, but she quickly smothered it away in favor of his less taxing question.

"I don’t believe you," he continues, voice rising with raw emotion. "How can you stand there and say we’ve given this a proper fighting chance, when you’ve been going out with other men every time you go home to India?" His nostrils flare, eyes glistening with barely-held tears and mounting anger. "Yes, I know about your suitors. Do you even tell them you're taken?" The question hangs heavy in the air. "What am I to you? A placeholder until you find someone more suitable? How would you feel if I was going on dates with other women every time I went overseas? Keeping my options open too?" He takes a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, but the hurt keeps pouring out. "And you know what? I wouldn’t have even cared that much if you had just told me... If we’re strangers, Meena, it’s because you’d rather discuss what goes on between us with your cousins and friends - people who have never liked me - instead of speaking to me like I’m actually your partner, and not just your roommate."

"I…" Her voice faltered under the weight of it, dark eyes darting away in search of of safety and finding none. The distance between them suddenly felt impossible to cross. "You were the man I wanted to marry." The confession came out barely above a whisper, tears beginning to gather in earnest. "You were never a placeholder." A weak breath left her. "Never." The hurt in her chest deepened as she watched him, watched anger struggling against grief. "I couldn't refuse the meetings." Her gaze dropped briefly, not out of shame but habit. The same habit which had guided so many of her decisions.

"My parents arranged them, and..." She swallowed. "We weren't engaged. We weren't married. In their eyes, time was passing. Every year became another conversation about children, about marriage, about whether I was being realistic. I met with them because saying no...wasn't really an option." The admission felt ugly, weak, yet honest. "And I never spoke to them afterward unless we happened to be at a wedding or social event." Her eyes lifted to his again. "I didn't say anything because I kept thinking eventually we'd be engaged and all of it would be done away with." Her fingers curled tighter against the wood of the windowsill. "I thought I was handling it." The first stray tears fell, a hand quickly rising to wipe them away. "I genuinely thought I was."

"Adventure, mostly. I’m an archaeologist by trade. Fancied myself a little like Indiana Jones, minus the whip and the hat, sadly." He gave a lopsided grin, a touch of embarrassment colouring his cheeks. "I wanted a completely new setting. Different energy. Different stories buried under the concrete." Noah paused, gaze softening as he studied her face in the gentle blue glow from the fish tank. "And you?… forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but I love your accent. It’s beautiful. How long have you been in New York? Or are you a native to the city?" He tilted his head slightly, clearly content to let her talk all evening if she wanted. A few moments later, their waiter appeared, politely placing menus in front of them both with a knowing little smile, clearly in on Mr. Wei's special treatment. "Good evening. Can I get you both something to drink to start?" the young man asked.

As Noah explained his interest in archaeology, her brows furrowed, a bit puzzled when he mentioned someone names Indian Jones. "That's interesting." Her fingers curled loosely around her water glass. "I always assumed England was the best fit for archaeology since they have the most...extensive museums." The words slipped before she fully thought them through and she made a bit of a face, realizing she might be delving into less than polite conversation. Thankfully, his question provided a respite from herself. His compliment on her accent was met with a light flush on her cheeks.

"Oh." Her eyes dropped momentarily to her glass. "No, you're very right." A soft smile followed. "I moved from India when I was nineteen for a nursing program and never left." There was affection in how she said it, the kind reserved for a city that had slowly become familiar. "I still visit when I can, though. My family and friends would never forgive me otherwise." Her smile widened into something genuinely fond. "Do you go home often?"

Even as evening began, the dusty streets of Cairo hummed under the relentless Egyptian sun. Noah Fischer wiped the sweat from his brow and pushed through the heavy wooden door of the dimly lit bar. The place was a classic Cairo watering hole with low ceilings, flickering oil lamps, and the sharp scent of hookah smoke. It wasn't his first time in this chaotic city, but he still stuck out like a sore thumb. Tall, fair-haired, dressed in a slightly rumpled cream linen suit with a loosely knotted tie, like a proper Englishman who’d taken a wrong turn on the way to the British Embassy. Back in London, he'd been a mediocre archaeologist at best... more treasure hunter than scholar, if he was honest. He'd only gotten into the field for the money. But nothing important had ever turned up. His late mentor, Dr. Harrington, had been the real expert on ancient Egypt. Noah had just tagged along for the funding and the occasional big score that never came.

Then British Intelligence came knocking. They'd pieced together whispers that the Americans were sniffing around for some legendary artifact, and worse, the Germans were in the mix too. The target? The Book of Amun-Ra, said to be hidden in the lost city of Hamunaptra. Most dismissed it as myth, a fairy tale. But the Queen wanted whatever ancient power might be buried out there in the sand - better in British hands than anyone else's. Intelligence had better things to do than chase ghosts, so they recruited Noah. Your mentor's notes are our best lead. And so here he was. No grand expedition, just a solo mission with a local guide, a man named Anouihl. Instructions had been clear: meet at this bar, wait, make contact quietly.

Noah had been nursing the same warm drink for over an hour now, boredom setting in hard. He'd asked around for Anouihl earlier, discreetly at first, then with growing impatience, but the responses were the same. Narrowed eyes, muttered curses, and a few locals who spat on the floor near his boots. Either Anouihl was bad news, or the locals were simply fed up with foreigners digging up their history like it was their own backyard. Sighing, Noah reached into the bowl of dates on the bar, a small mercy for his rumbling stomach. He leaned back against the worn wooden counter, scanning the room with that roguish half-smile of his, and his eyes landed on a striking woman at the end of the bar. Noah straightened up a bit, running a hand through his messy dark hair. "Well now," he said, his British accent smooth and playful as he slid a little closer, flashing a grin. "Name's Noah. Waiting on a rather unreliable fellow, but suddenly the wait doesn't seem so bad. Care for a date?" He offered one from the bowl with a wink, his tone light but undeniably flirtatious, the weight of his secret mission momentarily forgotten.

"Is that him?"

A gruff voice to Noémie's left pulled her gaze from the Englishman, a faint smirk forming as she nodded. "Oui." When she glanced back, it came as a surprise to witness him approaching a woman this time...then she caught his wink and her expression fell dull. The desire to watch his poor display was strong and for a beat she considered it, until she realized who he was talking to. "Mon dieu." A curse beneath her breath as she rose, boots striking tile in purposeful steps as her attention flicked between the woman who was all smiles and fluttering lashes, and the rather large man observing from the shadows. Of all the women in Cairo, of course he picks her. Typical.

"We’re a team, aren’t we?" he asks, finally looking back up at her. The words hurt even as he says them, because they haven’t felt like a team in a long time. "Our relationship isn’t something for you alone to ‘fix’, Meena. What about me? I can help. I want to help." His voice softens, almost pleading... however, when she suggests she should have just stayed quiet on their anniversary and left things as they were, he makes a face, brows pulling together in a mixture of confusion and something close to offense. "Why not? That doesn’t make any sense." He takes a small step forward then stops himself as the words come out sharper than he intended.

His words, though well meaning, fell with a phantom weight of promises long expired. A glance in the reflections of their relationship revealed a trail of frayed edges slowly unraveling with each passing month. I'm not sure we know each other anymore. Except to say such a thing felt needlessly cruel, despite the seed of certainty in her chest. Because if they knew one another, then she would have seen the earnestness in his proposal...and he would have known better than to do it then. You will adjust. A phrase uttered by elders so many times in passing and yet Bharati's words were no less prominent: You still have time to decide if you want to adjust. Merely thinking it filled her with a sense of guilt as she witnessed the shift in his emotions, her fingers twitching along the windowsill.

"Guilty," he added with a small huff, acknowledging her teasing about his own skipped meals. He kept his arm steady as she used it to rise, letting her fingers linger against his without pulling away. He answered her questions anyway, calm and precise as always. "Tomorrow is Tuesday. We have no appointments until eleven. You can sleep in. If you are hungry, then I will cook something for the both of us," he said firmly, retrieving his own coat from the hook by the door, the fabric whispering as he shrugged it on. Stepping ahead to open the boutique door for her, the cool night air drifted in as he held it wide, waiting for her to pass through first with that same effortless courtesy. It was both a blessing and a curse that her home was within walking distance of the atelier. He fell into step beside her once she exited, close enough to offer his arm again if she wanted it. "I’ll prepare something simple. Nothing heavy. Just enough to keep you from wasting away on mint tea and stubbornness."

They walked side by side through the quiet streets. As they passed the warmly lit pastry shop, its windows still glowing with trays of glistening sweets, Noah slowed slightly. His hidden sweet tooth stirred despite his best efforts to keep it buried under layers of professional restraint. "Last chance," he murmured, the words light but carrying the faintest trace of hope.

As they stepped out onto cobblestone, the days tensions began melting away, replaced by London's incessant chill, and she shoved her hands deep in the pockets of her coat with a quiet, Mon Dieu, muttered under her breath. No matter how many years spent here, she could not make peace with the weather, such a far cry from warm days enjoyed in Pau. "What even counts as simple English food?" She asked, shooting him a skeptical look as they walked. "Why not let me cook? It would take half the time." A complete lie considering she was prone to getting carried away. One dish became three, then bread, then dessert because she'd already dirtied the kitchen anyway.

As they walked, her eyes drifted to lit windows overhead, catching glimpses into others' lives- silhouettes moving through warm pools of light. Unlike many Londoners, she hardly ever closed her curtains at home. The idea of sealing herself away feeling strangely suffocating.