She was gently urged to change her clothes before breakfast, where a warm bowl of porridge, some vitamins, and her medicine awaited her. I went to her closet, searching for something comfortable for her to wear.
She took the clothes I picked out, though in her usual hurried manner, barely changing before emerging. I stepped outside to wait, eager for us to share breakfast together.
"I told you to take care of yourself, to look after your health," I said, my voice strained as I sat across from her at the table, the words hanging between us like an old wound.
"But you didn't listen. Or maybe you just didn't know how to care for yourself?"
She met my gaze, her eyes betraying a flicker of discomfort.
"I do," she replied quickly, as if to silence the accusation before it fully formed.
"You do?" I repeated, my disbelief edging into my tone. "Then why... why this?"
Her answer was a weak defense, an excuse that didn't quite fit.
"How could I know when I'm getting sick?" she mumbled, the words faltering. It was clear, though, the truth was simpler—she had been drinking.
I didn't say anything more. The silence between us deepened, and I looked into her eyes, feeling the weight of my words settle around us. What was there to say when the truth stood so clearly in front of us both, unspoken but undeniable?
"How can you still say that, Solin?" I asked, my voice tinged with frustration. The doctor had been clear, after all.
She didn't answer. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her silence speaking volumes.
I sighed, trying to mask the worry creeping into my tone.
"Don't be childish. Eat your meal, then go back to bed."
She nodded without a word and, as always, complied with such quiet grace. It was both heartwarming and saddening to see her so obedient, even when the weight of her condition pressed down on her.
Once breakfast was finished, we made our way back to the bedroom. She needed more rest, the doctor had said, after taking her medicine. I settled her in, watching her drift into sleep, and felt the heavy pull of helplessness settle over me.
But she trembled slightly, her body shuddering from the cold, and I noticed how vulnerable she looked at that moment. I quickly found a pair of socks and gently slipped them onto her delicate feet. Her nails were painted in a rich gradient, a glamorous red carpet manicure that gleamed with every subtle movement.
The colors shifted from deep crimson at the tips to a soft, almost translucent blush near the base, perfectly complementing the smoothness of her skin. It was as if the nails themselves were designed to reflect the same elegance and grace that radiated from her every gesture.
"Your feet are so smooth," I remarked, my voice soft. "They're like a baby's. Your mom must take good care of you."
A shift passed over her face, her expression darkening, and she pressed her lips together before speaking again.
"My mom didn't really have the time to look after me," she said quietly, her tone edged with something distant.
"I spent most of my childhood with a nanny."
"Really?" I asked, surprised.
She nodded, her eyes avoiding mine.
"I'm not really close to my mom, like most people are with theirs."
The words lingered in the air, and I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of sadness.
"That sounds a bit strange to me," I said.
"A daughter should be more attached to her mother."
"Maybe it's a common story, but I'm the fourth child," she said softly. I finished the task of caring for her feet while maintaining our quiet conversation. She glanced at me, her eyes distant. she continued, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness.
"I have five siblings—one older brother, two sisters, and a younger brother,"
I could sense the weight of her words, and without hesitation, I asked,
"But you're close to your sisters, right?"
She hesitated for a moment before responding,
"Well... you could say that. My mom is from a wealthy family and she's quite conservative…"
I nodded, trying to offer reassurance.
"It's okay. I'm not very close with my mom either. My dad was the only one who really cared for me. But... It's fine."
She gave a small nod of understanding, though I could tell she was holding back. I knew that if she were her usual self, she'd press me with more questions, seeking to understand. But for now, the silence between us spoke volumes.
I bring another large sofa over and place it beside her bed, settling onto it with a quiet sigh. The fabric feels soft beneath me, but my attention is on her, watching as she lies there, looking fragile yet resilient.
"Do you feel better? Gaining some strength back?" I ask, my voice gentle, almost tentative.
She nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
"I do."
A moment passes, and I hesitate before asking,
"Don't... you're not on your period, are you?"
She shook her head.
"Not yet, but I can't be sure. It's always different... It could come sooner than I thought."
I frown, the concern in my voice growing.
"Maybe because of stress... throwing things off."
Her eyes flicker with something—defiance, maybe. She turned to me. I continued as my voice steady but tinged with an edge.
"Don't be so careless. Next time, let me take care of you."
She blinked, a laugh escaping me at her words.
"You mean it?"
I chuckled and softened the moment, my eyes glinting with a quiet sincerity.
"Of course."
She laughed softly, her gaze drifting away from the conversation. The phone on the table beside the headboard buzzed again, its ring cutting through the quiet.
She glanced at it, then turned to her father with a quiet resolve. With a swift motion, she reached for the phone and answered.
"Yes, Dad?" she said, her voice calm yet tinged with hesitation.
A pause followed, his words muffled, but she listened with patient attention, her gaze unfocusing as she absorbed each word.
"I don't think I can," she continued after a moment, her tone apologetic but firm. "I have to work."
Another pause, longer this time, as the silence between them seemed to stretch. She exhaled quietly, her fingers tightening slightly around the phone.
"I'm sorry, but we already talked with mom last night... I can't go to Siem Reap right now."
There was a moment of stillness. Then, with a sigh, she spoke again, the words more resolute.
"Let me talk to her... Yes, Mom!"
After a moment of listening to her mother, a wave of tension spread across her face, her expression darkening with disappointment.
"Please, don't mention anyone anymore. I'll hang up! Mom I swear, I'll hang up right now!"
Without another word, she ended the call, tossing the phone aside with a swift motion. Turning her back to me, she enveloped herself in silence, her shoulders tense with unspoken words.
I felt the weight of her emotions and knew there was nothing more to say. I wouldn't push her further, not now.
It felt as though I were falling through space, a disorienting sensation that jolted me awake for a brief moment before I drifted back into sleep. I forced myself to remain still, pretending to be asleep, as I realized Solin had gently draped a blanket over me.
Her soft movements told me she was careful not to disturb me. After a while, I heard her footsteps fade as she left the room. She must have been heading to the bathroom. A moment later, I heard her pass through the kitchen. I imagined she was preparing her home, starting her day.
It was only last night that I truly took in the details of her condominium, and I was struck by how surprisingly small yet immaculate it was. Each item seemed to be placed with care, as though it were second nature to her, a reflection of the orderliness woven into the fabric of her daily life.
The only exception was the bathroom—perhaps a sign of her being overwhelmed or unwell. The clutter of unwashed clothes scattered about spoke of a momentary lapse, a brief disruption in her otherwise methodical routine.
She returned, her movements quiet as she rummaged through her wardrobe, selecting something to wear. Then, without a word, she made her way toward the washroom, which was conveniently tucked into the corner of the bedchamber. It was in that moment, as she disappeared from view, that I decided it was time to wake.
My gaze, still heavy with the remnants of sleep, wandered around the room. On the side wall, a beautiful painting caught my gaze—a quiet masterpiece, its colors vivid yet soft, like a secret meant only for those who paused long enough to notice. Around it stood clothes racks and ready-made fabrics, their patterns whispering of possibilities yet to be shaped. Did she cut her own dress?
Then, almost without intention, my gaze shifted—up, then down—and something unexpected caught my eye. A flicker of movement, a detail out of place. It wasn't just the objects here; it was her story, woven into everything she left behind.
It settled on a batch of red, withered roses nestled in a glass vase, placed delicately on a wooden cabinet. The vase stood in quiet company with a holder for scented candles and a pair of diffusers, their soft, calming presence filling the space with a hint of tranquility.
On her graduation day, there is a photograph of her, standing proudly between an elderly couple. I assumed they were her parents, both look elite and modern. The frame, a warm brown wood, beckoned to me, and I lifted it to bring her charming, her beautiful smile closer.
Just as I was about to place it back, something caught my eye—a subtle shift in the clutter of foreign language books (Books on khmer traditional clothes book and European Classical Art), stacked nearby. Hidden among them was another photo frame, this one dark blue, its edges faintly catching the light.
I reached for the dark blue frame, and as I lifted it, my heart caught for a moment. There, in the photograph, she stood with him. His arms wrapped around her, his chin resting gently on her shoulder, while her smile—soft and serene—spoke of something deeper than mere happiness. They were dressed casually, their joy unpretentious, their bond unmistakable.
It was the kind of simplicity that only comes from a love grown comfortable with time. I found myself wondering what had shaped them, what moments had passed between them to bring them to this place of such quiet contentment.
Continued...