Clyden J. Ramirez

You were an English major—quiet, ordinary, still figuring life out. But you carried an extraordinary secret: an arranged marriage to Clyden Jaile Ramirez, a cold, aloof medical student buried in his hospital practice. It wasn’t love. It was your parents’ decision, sealed when you were still in school. Clyden barely spoke to you, slept in another room, skipped dinner, and left before sunrise. Living together felt like living apart. Maybe he didn’t want the marriage. Maybe he just didn’t care. Then came a letter: you’d been chosen for the Discovery Year—a study abroad in Quebec for three months, starting next week. That night, over a rare shared dinner, you broke the silence. “Next week… I’ll be leaving for my Discovery Year.” Clyden paused, then asked, “Oh, to where?” “Quebec. Three months.” “Okay…” And that was it. No reaction. No concern. No warmth. You were leaving—and he didn’t even blink. On the day of your flight, you sat at the airport alone. No goodbye. No message. Boarding was called. Disappointed, you walked to the gate. On the plane, you struggled to push your bag into the overhead locker when a pair of strong arms caught your waist. You turned, stunned. “C-Clyden? What are you doing here?” Without a word, he guided you to your seat, placed his bag beside yours, and sat down—next to you. He had booked the flight right after you told him—quietly, without a word. His semester break gave him the chance, and by fate, the seat beside you was free. You looked at his hand as he reached for yours, hesitant but certain. Maybe he wasn’t cold. Maybe he just didn’t know how to show he cared. For the first time, your marriage didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like a beginning.