The scent of stewed oxtail and jollof rice, so vibrant just hours ago, had receded, replaced by the faint, comforting aroma of wood polish and old books. Maya sat on the edge of her bed, the sketchbook open on her knees, but her charcoal remained untouched. The image of Auntie Caro’s hawk-like gaze, a glint of suspicion sharpening the warmth in her eyes, was etched behind Maya’s eyelids. Every forced smile, every lingering touch Kian had offered, felt replayed in a slow-motion reel in her mind, each frame magnifying the artificiality of their performance. She traced the faint lines of an unfinished landscape on the page, a tranquil scene of a hidden waterfall in the Rockies she’d visited years ago. Serene. Isolated. Everything her current reality was not. Living above the bustling energy of *Okafor’s Eats*, surrounded by the lingering whispers of family laughter and the ghost of their shared past, felt less like cohabitation and more like an elaborate, high-stakes theatrical production. A floorboard creaked in the hallway, a soft groan that told her Kian was still awake. A moment later, a low hum of music, jazz, began to drift from his room – a familiar, soothing presence she hadn't consciously realized she'd missed until now. It was one of *their* old playlists, the kind they’d put on during late-night study sessions, or while sketching together in her college studio. The sudden, unbidden surge of nostalgia was a physical ache behind her ribs. She pushed herself off the bed, the sudden movement jarring. Her small studio space, tucked away at the back of the apartment, usually served as her sanctuary. But tonight, the blank canvas on the easel seemed to mock her, a silent testament to the creative block that had plagued her since she’d arrived in Toronto, or perhaps, since Kian had re-entered her life. She picked up a small, smooth river stone she’d found on her morning walk and ran her thumb over its cool surface. Grounding. That’s what she needed. “Rough crowd?” Kian’s voice, a low rumble from the doorway, made her jump. He leaned against the frame, a half-empty glass of water in his hand, his usually impeccable hair a little dishevelled. He looked tired, the kind of exhaustion that seeped into bones, not just muscles. Maya turned, forcing a casual shrug. “Auntie Caro’s got a future as an interrogation specialist.” He chuckled, a short, dry sound. “She just loves me. And she’s very… perceptive.” His gaze held hers, and for a fleeting second, the veneer of their fake marriage faltered. There was a raw honesty in his eyes, a shared weariness that resonated with her own. It was a glimpse of the Kian she knew, the one who saw through her sarcasm to the vulnerable core she kept hidden. “She definitely saw something,” Maya said, her voice a little softer than intended. “I’m not sure what, but she was looking.” Kian pushed off the doorframe, walking into the living room, but stopped short of her studio entrance. “Don’t worry about Caro. She’s like a lie detector that runs on intuition and strong pepper soup. She’ll come around. Or she won’t. Either way, she’ll be a pain.” He took a slow sip of water. “You were great, though. Very convincing.” The compliment felt like a jab, a reminder of the act. “I aim to please,” she deadpanned, retrieving her usual armour. “Though I’m pretty sure I nearly choked on my yams when your cousin asked about our honeymoon plans.” He grinned, a genuine flash of white teeth that momentarily erased the weariness. “That was a good one, though. ‘We’re thinking of a quiet retreat, exploring the nuances of each other’s… artistic souls.’” He mimicked her voice, drawing out the last words with an exaggerated flourish. “Brilliant. She actually believed it.” “She looked a little confused, if anything,” Maya countered, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. The shared absurdity of the evening was a strange, fragile bridge between them. It was easier to laugh at the awkwardness than to acknowledge the simmering undercurrents. He moved further into the living room, stopping by the large window overlooking the quiet street. The streetlights cast long, yellow shadows. “It was a lot, I know,” he said, his voice dropping, the playful tone gone. “Having everyone there, watching. It felt… exposed.” The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Exposed. That was exactly it. Not just their fake relationship, but their history, their unresolved past, laid bare for everyone to scrutinize. For *them* to scrutinize. It was one thing to pretend for a stranger, another entirely to perform for people who had watched them grow up, who remembered them as inseparable best friends. “It’s part of the job description,” Maya said, trying to inject a lightness she didn’t feel. “Fake wife extraordinaire. Requires a thick skin and a stellar poker face.” Kian turned from the window, his gaze soft, almost regretful. “It shouldn’t be this hard for you, Maya. This whole situation… I know it’s a lot to ask.” The genuine concern in his voice was disarming. It pricked at the edges of her carefully constructed defenses. She looked down at the river stone in her hand, suddenly feeling the weight of the unspoken. *It’s hard because it’s you*, she wanted to say. *It’s hard because you make me remember what it felt like to not have to pretend with you*. But the words caught in her throat, strangled by years of self-preservation. “It is what it is,” she finally managed, her voice carefully neutral. “A means to an end. For both of us.” He nodded slowly, his lips pressed into a thin line. The brief moment of shared vulnerability, the flicker of their old connection, dissipated, replaced by the familiar, comfortable distance. He was Kian, her fake husband, and she was Maya, the artist whose visa depended on his family’s restaurant. Roles solidified once more. “True,” he said, walking towards the kitchen, the clink of ice as he refilled his glass. “Still. I appreciate you. Really.” She watched him, his broad shoulders, the slight slump that betrayed his own exhaustion. He was carrying a burden too, a weight she often overlooked in her own self-absorption. The restaurant, his family, the constant pressure. She knew he cared deeply, and that care was both a comfort and a threat to her guarded heart. Later, as the soft jazz continued to drift from Kian’s room, a mournful saxophone weaving through the quiet apartment, Maya finally picked up her charcoal. The blank canvas still felt intimidating, but the small sketchbook offered a different kind of freedom. Instead of the waterfall, her hand began to sketch the intricate patterns of a traditional Nigerian fabric she’d seen Auntie Caro wearing earlier. The complex geometry, the vibrant colours, the history woven into every thread. It was an escape, yes, but also an immersion. A recognition that this new, complicated life, with its forced intimacies and unexpected echoes, was slowly, irrevocably, becoming part of her own tapestry. The music swelled, a lone, lingering note, and for the first time since she’d arrived, Maya didn’t feel quite so alone in the quiet apartment.

Chapter 9: The Echo of Applause