She trails off, never quite finishing what she wants to say, as though the words are too heavy to bear. It's like she's fighting against something inside herself—something she refuses to acknowledge.
"Just stay away from me," she says, her voice dropping, strained by unspoken emotions. "I don't want to see you. You're making me so angry. Please, I'm begging you... stay away from me. At all costs. Don't make this harder."
My chest tightens. There's so much pain behind those words, yet it's all wrapped in a wall of anger, a defense mechanism she's constructed to keep herself from being vulnerable. I can feel her pulling away, but the part of me that's desperate to reach her still lingers.
"Why?" I ask, my voice hoarse with a mixture of confusion and helplessness. "Are you afraid?"
Her laughter is bitter, like something broken and jagged.
"Exaggerating," she sneers, but it's clear that she doesn't believe her own words. She's just too scared to face the truth. She's too terrified to admit that, yes, she is afraid. Afraid of me getting too close. Afraid of what it might mean if I truly saw her.
Her face hardens, and I can see the walls rising higher around her heart. She's pushing me away, trying to bury whatever it is she's feeling beneath a blanket of icy detachment.
But then, her voice cracks, and the words come out, raw and unfiltered.
"Stop caring about me. No matter what happens. If you see me dead one day, don't even stop. Just... walk away."
Her words are like a punch to the gut. They don't just sting—they wound deeply, leaving a scar that will never heal. It's as if she's giving up on everything. On herself. On us. On the possibility that someone might care enough to stay.
I feel the air in my lungs freeze. For a moment, I can't breathe. The weight of her despair presses down on me, and all I want to do is reach out and pull her in, but I know that the distance she's created is too wide for me to cross.
Her eyes lock with mine, and for a fleeting second, I see something raw in them—something fragile, something that still holds on to hope, even if she can't admit it.
But she quickly looks away, as though the vulnerability is too much to bear. She turns her back to a wall, and I'm left standing there, paralyzed by the knowledge that no matter how much I want to help, no matter how deeply I feel for her, I can't force her to heal. She has to want it.
"Don't be too much! Don't be so hard on yourself, ok?" I say, trying to calm the storm inside her. But she rejects it with a sharp shake of her head.
"Let's end this here. I'm moving out soon," she says, her voice cold as she turns back toward her car.
I can't let her walk away like that.
"Am I acting? What about you?"
I call out, as the words sharp.
"You think I'm scamming you, or are you scamming yourself?"
She whirls around, her voice rising in anger.
"You're crazy!"
The words hit me like a slap, and something inside me snaps. I grab her wrist, my grip firm, almost desperate.
"I don't care who made you like this, but if you keep judging me like that—if you keep pushing me away like I'm nothing—I won't let it slide. If this isn't who you really are, I won't forgive the people who did this to you. I'm not as easy to walk over as you think."
Her eyes widen, a flicker of something—fear, regret, maybe confusion—crossing her face. She doesn't say anything, just stares at me, and I finally release her wrist, letting her go.
Without another word, I turn and walk away, my steps heavy, my heart even heavier. I didn't expect to spend my weekend this way, but here I am, torn between wanting to reach her and knowing that maybe... maybe I'm the one who needs to let go.
***
Are we drifting in the same boat, yet sailing in different directions? She doesn't even seem to know how to care for herself, as if she's never had to. Perhaps she's the pampered daughter, sheltered by her family's wealth and affection. But I wonder—could she be running from something deeper?
Maybe she's consumed by anger, fleeing from someone who hurt her, seeking solitude only to find herself swallowed by the weight of her own choices. Now, alone, she's staring down the reality of financial ruin, and I can't help but feel the quiet desperation in her every move.
Perhaps she feels the weight of shame, unable to face her parents again, retreating into herself. She even left her company because of 'he', the friend she mentioned earlier—such reckless decisions, so careless, or so it seems.
But then, what if everything I've assumed is wrong? What if the truth flips all my judgments on my head? Could there be another side to her story, one I've yet to see, one where she's not running from weakness but from something far more complicated? What if the woman in question is far deeper, far stronger than I ever imagined?
The coming day breaks the long tiredness of my overthinking night…
***
Last night, I couldn't help but wish she hadn't been crying because of me. If I truly weren't enough in her eyes, then my words, however harsh, should have meant nothing to her. But instead, they've left me tangled in guilt, knowing they might have hurt her, and now I'm left questioning myself, wondering if I'm the one to blame for the pain she carries.
It took me the entire night to convince myself to leave her alone, because that's what she wants, and I have to respect it—even though it tears me apart in ways I've never felt before. I thought this morning would bring a fresh start, the possibility of clarity, and maybe, just maybe, the only way to stop the spiral of overthinking.
But instead, it only deepens my self-doubt, as I question my impact on her, imagining endless scenarios that make my stomach churn. My mind can't stop assuming every possible outcome, fixating on what could have been, and it's suffocating me.
As I persuade myself that she'll be fine without my interference, I've made the choice to move on, letting go of the need to hold onto something that wasn't meant to be.
Absolutely opposite!
***
Today feels like the gloomiest Sunday. She's not well again, her tears from last night still lingering in the air. She couldn't even find rest, and I can't help but catch a glimpse of her. A dark magenta wrap dress clings to her figure, her hair tangled and wild, as she stands at the edge of the balcony, her silhouette framed by the weight of it all.
A bottle of wine rests beside her feet. With a weary gesture, she lifts a glass of half-filled red wine to her lips, ready to drink it all in one go. I can't stop myself—I reach out and gently take the glass from her hand, unable to watch her drown in it
"What are you doing?" she shouted angrily, her eyes burning with fury.
"Just stop!" I soften my voice, trying to calm her. "Don't harm yourself... you need to take care of yourself."
"Who are you to interfere?" she snapped.
"So why did you cry last night?" I asked, my words soft yet pointed.
She paused, a flash of surprise crossing her face before she realized—her expression betrayed her. Silly girl. I pick up the bottle, my resolve steady.
"You should drink some hot water, not this," I said gently.
She remained silent, her frustration hanging in the air.
"Go inside, it's about to rain. You need to eat lunch and rest," I urged, my voice soft but firm.
I gently grasp her wrist and lead her toward my house. She doesn't resist, perhaps too tired or a little drunk to argue
Now, I find myself wondering what her house looks like—this careless woman, whose life seems so scattered. The image remains unclear, and I can't quite picture the state of it. I can only hope that her two friends have stepped in, offering the help and care she so desperately needs.
As she settles onto the sofa, I place the bottle and her glass of wine on the table beside us. I sit across from her, hoping to speak in a calm, normal tone. She looks exhausted, and I can tell she doesn't want to delve into anything serious right now. But remaining silent might only make her more impatient, caught in her own thoughts.
"Did you eat?" I asked, breaking the silence.
She shook her head, then responded quietly,
"I don't cook. I had leftover pizza yesterday."
"I see. So, should we order something together?"
"I didn't bring my phone with me."
"We can use mine," I offered, pulling my phone from my pocket. I open the food ordering app and extend it to her, but she gently refuses.
"You do it," she said softly.
But I want to distract her from her heavy thoughts, to pull her focus away from anything serious. Something simpler, less stressful—like ordering food, or maybe watching TV. So, I sit next to her, bringing the phone between us so we can look together. We scroll up and down, searching for interesting pictures on the menu. As time passes, I begin to notice her eyes lingering a little longer on the food, her interest creeping in, though she doesn't seem to realize it herself.
She points to a picture of a mixed salad and seafood set, her finger tracing the vibrant colors on the screen. A small smile starts to form on her lips, as if the image alone has already satisfied her hunger, and for a moment, she seems happier just imagining the meal.
"Can we have this one?" she asked, her voice soft, a hint of longing in her eyes.
"Of course! And what else would you like? There are drinks and desserts listed below," I offered gently, trying to make her feel at ease.
She takes a moment, her fingers pausing over the screen as she scans the options. Then she chooses,
"Sankhya Lapov: Pumpkin Custard, and Mung Bean Pudding."
"I'd like to order these two. What about you?"
"I'd love the same. It's been so long since I've had these desserts. Let's try them together."
"Okay."
"But don't you want to order some soup or a cooked dish, too? You've only had leftover pizza and now just salad."
"I don't really like cooked meals if we have other options," she replied, a gentle shrug accompanying her words. "But if you want to, feel free to."
With a quiet smile, she hands me the phone, her gesture warm and trusting, as if it's a small moment of shared comfort between us.
"I think that's enough for now. So, we have the salad with seafood set, Sankhya Lapov: Pumpkin Custard, and Mung Bean Pudding on the order. I also have some coke, juice, and fruit in the fridge," I said as I placed the order.
She listened carefully, then nodded.
"That's fine, don't worry about me."
"No, I have to take care of you. You're my guest now," I replied, my tone firm but gentle.
She chuckles softly, pausing for a moment as if trying not to keep smiling.
"Just smile," I teased, hoping to ease her mood.
She looked into my eyes, her expression thoughtful, like she's lost in some quiet reflection.
"What's wrong with my face?" I asked, curiosity creeping into my voice.
"No... you just look younger!" she said, pressing the words out.
"Am I? I don't think so... I'll be almost 30 soon."
She doesn't respond, her gaze drifting away as her eyes settle on my gaming setup next to the bedroom door.
I let the moment fall into silence, yearning to catch a glimpse of her profile from behind, so close, as we sat together on the same sofa. It's the first time I've seen her truly engaged in something beyond her sunset, wine, and the quiet.
Her body is draped in the most exquisite dress, like a model herself, blooming beneath the subtle fragrance of her perfume, as if the air itself is enchanted by her presence, resting effortlessly against the sofa. Her arm lies across her thigh, her gaze distant yet warm, and her soft red lips, slightly parted, make my heart race. I swallow hard, overcome with a quiet urgency, and stand to fetch something for her to drink.
"Sit here, I'll get you some water," I said, offering a smile.
"Yes, thank you," she replied, adjusting herself to sit properly, her eyes meeting mine as she waits.
I return with two glasses of juice and sit down in front of her, no longer on the same sofa, mindful that it might make her feel uneasy and leave too soon.
"You like wearing dresses, don't you?" I asked, a hint of curiosity in my voice.
"Yes, I do. I like dress" she responded , taking a sip of juice.
"What's your favorite color?" I continued, my question simple, but with a deeper intention behind it.
She chuckled softly at the unexpected question.
"Why are you asking such funny questions? Is it really that important?"
She asks, her tone light but curious.
"So, have you ever thought about me?" I twisted my question, the words slipping out with a hint of curiosity.
She was stunned for a moment, her mind clearly weighing the question. I can see the amusement flicker in her eyes. She places her glass gently on the table, then, with a smile, she responds.
"Red."
I'm taken aback, the surprise hitting me unexpectedly.
"My favorite color is red," she added, her voice soft yet certain.
"Ohh, I see," I replied, pretending to understand, though inside, the answer lingers with me, stirring something I can't quite explain.
"Do you love red, then?" I echoed her words, trying to understand her better.
"Yes, of course!" she replied, her voice warm with certainty.
"So, red is what you love. Remember this!" I said, a smile tugging at my lips.
I stand up abruptly, finishing my sentence, and she looks up at me, a question in her eyes.
"By the way, what's your name? You already know mine."
"D," I respond simply, my answer quick and to the point.
"D?" she repeated, as if testing the name on her tongue.
"Yes!"
"Okay, D!" she said, a small smile forming.
"Wait for me here, the food delivery is on its way. I'll go downstairs to pick it up. Are you okay staying alone?"
"That's fine," she answered without hesitation.
"Okay!" I replied, giving her a reassuring nod before heading out to retrieve the food.
Continued...