The view of the sunset from our building's corridor stretches wide, painted in hues of fiery orange and soft purple.
I've been standing here since 5:20 p.m., right after getting home from work. Time seems to have dissolved, and now it's 8:34.
The world is quiet except for the faint hum of distant city sounds. Then, she appears—crossing my line of sight as if drawn by fate—heading toward her room down the hall.
Without thinking, I move toward her.
"Don't talk to me!" Her voice cut through the stillness, sharp and defensive.
"Are you alright?" I asked, my tone cautious but steady.
She glances away, her posture heavy with weariness. Exhaustion radiates from her like a silent plea.
"I don't—just leave me alone!" she snapped, her voice trembling.
"Can I take care of you?" I offered, my voice soft, an edge of sincerity slipping through. I watch her, waiting, hoping my words might reach past her walls.
She might spend her afternoon shift wandering somewhere far from the office, lost in her own world—a place I couldn't even begin to imagine. I had never managed to learn much about her interests or hobbies, and didn't have any chance yet.
After her encounter with Hak Seng earlier, she seemed to have fallen into that familiar shadow of sadness again. I couldn't shake the feeling that she needed someone to reach out, to help her find her way back to herself.
"I don't need it!"
She screamed, her voice slicing through the tense air. The force of her words left me stunned, rooted in place as a tremor coursed through me. Instinctively, I stepped back, considering whether I should leave her to be alone.
But something about the way she looked—pale, faint—made me hesitate. It didn't feel right to walk away.
Just as I mustered the courage to approach her, a sudden sound interrupted the silence. Her phone buzzed insistently from her pocket. She pulled it out with a shaky hand, her eyes narrowing at the screen.
"It's Dad," she muttered to herself before turning away from me. With a reluctant motion, she accepted the call, her voice softening as she spoke.
"Hello, Dad!" Her voice rang out with an easy warmth, but then a softness settled in.
"Oh, I just got home from work."
Her tone shifted, from casual to something gentler, more generous. She was listening, but everything around me grew distant, fading into a muffled hum.
The world seemed to fall away as she focused, her fingers moving nimbly with quiet precision. With her left hand, she tapped in the password, unlocking the door with a fluid motion.
The games that usually helped me fade into distraction were useless tonight. Frustration gnawed at me. I nearly tossed everything aside in a fit of restless energy. The absence of her—her warmth, her presence—was unbearable. I missed her so much, it felt like a constant ache deep inside.
I felt as though the air had changed since she entered my life, as if every breath I drew now carried the scent of her presence—something sweet and intangible, a fragrance that lingered long after she was gone. She wasn't just a woman to me; she was a gravity that pulled at the very marrow of my being, a sun I revolved around without ever daring to approach.
Each glance from her was a storm I embraced, and her smile defied the darkness in my soul. She couldn't know how I hung on every word, as if her voice could shift my world. I longed for her with an ancient desperation, as if I'd waited lifetimes for this moment, yet I couldn't find the courage to bridge the gap between us.
The words burned in my throat, heavy and raw, but fear kept me silent. What if she didn't feel the same pull? What if I ruined this fragile closeness? So, I said nothing, living in the quiet torment of stolen glances and fleeting touches—agony and bliss in every moment.
Loving her in silence was like drowning in light—beautiful yet suffocating. She was my every thought, my universe, but she'd never know. To confess would mean losing the only piece of her I had, a price I couldn't bear to pay.
I stood frozen before the fridge, staring at her wine bottle. The empty glass mocked me, reflecting the emptiness within. Memories flashed by, fleeting and quiet, like a man losing his sanity. The weight pressed down, and my thoughts spiraled, slipping beyond my control.
With a sigh, I shut the fridge door, the cold air slipping away as I sank down onto the couch. The soft cushions did little to ease the tightness in my chest. And then, in the stillness, my phone buzzed. The notification echoed through the silence:
"RED"
It was from Solinka, I no longer stored her name as FDS-3 in my phone anymore.. It felt too distant, too clinical.
Something was wrong. Why had she only sent my name? No explanation, no context. Just my name, out of nowhere. My heart skipped a beat. Then the second message arrived, sending a chill down my spine:
"I think I'm going to die."
A shiver ran through me, and my thoughts raced. Without thinking, I jumped up, panic flooding my veins. I rushed toward the door, trembling, my hand shaking as I fumbled to dial her number.
"Solin," I said, voice strained as I hurried through the hallways.
"…"
"Open the door, please," I urged, my voice desperate, but she was silent. I could hear her slow breathing on the other end, but she didn't respond right away.
"...0-1... 0-8..." she finally whispered, a string of numbers that felt more like a code than a reply.
"And?" I pressed, my heart hammering in my chest.
"07."
"07." I repeated the numbers, my fingers trembling as I entered the code, my mind racing with fear and confusion. Would I make it in time?
I stepped into her apartment, a sense of urgency gnawing at me as I moved swiftly through the rooms.
The kitchen was empty, the living room silent, and the bathroom untouched. It wasn't until I reached the master bedroom that I found her—Solin, dressed in a pair of gray pajamas, her body sprawled across the bed, vulnerable and drained, as if life itself had abandoned her.
I rushed to her side, my voice trembling as I whispered her name.
"Solin?"
She barely stirred, her eyelids fluttering open for a fleeting moment before they closed again, her breath shallow. And then, just as quickly, she was gone—unconscious, her body limp and unresponsive.
Panic surged through me, and without hesitation, I grabbed my phone, dialing for an ambulance. Time was slipping away, and I knew I couldn't wait a second longer.
The clock had long passed midnight when she slowly opened her eyes, her right arm tethered to an IV. The sterile light of the room felt distant, almost dreamlike, as she blinked in quiet confusion. The doctor had warned her—alcohol mixed with medication had drained her strength. He assured me she could go home with the morning light.
Our gazes briefly collided, a silent exchange of understanding between us. I saw the gratitude in her eyes, unspoken yet clear. Gently, I placed my hand on her arm, the touch a soft reassurance.
"Sleep some more," I murmured, my voice steady and warm. "I'm here. Rest well."
She nodded, her eyelids fluttering shut once more, surrendering to the comfort of the words and the quiet solace of the night.
It was a struggle to keep her upright in the confined space of the elevator as we ascended toward the fifteenth floor. My arms wrapped around her, lifting her slightly to support her frail form. Just as we neared our destination, the elevator came to a sudden halt, its mechanical hum grinding to a stop. I hesitated only for a moment before I swept her into my arms and made my way out, carrying her towards her room.
"I can walk," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
I shook my head, a firm response slipping from my lips.
"Don't talk."
She obeyed, her lips sealing shut as we moved in silence.
Once we reached her bed, I gently lowered her onto the soft mattress, making sure she was settled with care.
"Just rest, okay?" I murmured. "I'll get something for you to eat."
She gave a small, tired nod, but before I could turn away, she spoke again, her voice quiet but insistent.
"You should rest too."
I looked down at her, meeting her weary gaze.
"I will," I promised, though I knew that wasn't entirely true.
I sat in the chair beside her bed, casually glancing down at my phone as I handled a few tasks.
"How's work going?" she asked, her voice soft but steady.
I looked at her, with a faint smile tugging at my lips.
"I'm just asking for permission. It's fine, don't worry."
She nodded, meeting my gaze. "Yes."
Continued...