The scent of food wafted through the air, teasing my senses and stirring a hunger within me, even as I struggled to keep my eyes open on the soft couch.
Half asleep, I couldn't help but let my mind drift, the nap taking hold of me as the distant ring of a phone broke through my foggy thoughts. It wasn't mine, though. Solin reached over, her hand brushing the small wooden table before answering the call.
"Hi, Nita. What's up?" her voice, steady and calm, broke the silence.
I couldn't hear Nita's response, the pause between their words seemed to stretch endlessly.
"Oh, I won't be free tomorrow," Solin continued after a beat. "I've got some things to take care of."
Another long silence, filled only by the distant hum of the room.
"Why would you do that?" Solin's tone shifted slightly, as though an answer had already begun to form in his mind.
Another pause.
"For sure, I'll go back to the office after tomorrow," she added with a sigh.
"I'll place my resignation letter, hard and final."
Nita said something else, her words lost in the space between us, but Solin's response was firm, his resolve clear.
"Yes, I have to be more resilient. I won't run away again… He got into a fight that had nothing to do with me!"
And then, only silence.
"My parents are coming over to see me," she said, her voice soft yet filled with a hint of unease. "It's been so long since we last really talked. I was surprised when he called me out of the blue... Maybe they have other plans, haha! I don't know..." She chuckled nervously. "I do miss them, though. And I worry about Dad and Mom... but, I'm always such a bad daughter to them."
She paced back and forth, her footsteps light but hurried, as if her words couldn't catch up to her thoughts.
"Well, alright... see you," she murmured before hanging up. Her gaze softened, and she walked over to me with a quiet resolve.
"Hey, Red," she said gently, "It's 8 p.m. now. Wake up."
I feigned sleep, stretching slowly as I reminded myself of the way the sofa had molded to my body.
"Oh..." I murmured, blinking as if I were just waking up.
"You're alright?" she asked, her concern apparent in the softness of her tone.
"I'm okay," I replied.
"Let's eat, then," she said, "and you can take your medicine."
"Yes," I answered, my voice barely above a whisper.
There's a warmth in the air that I can't quite put into words—a kind of magic that comes from being with her. Sharing quiet moments at home, talking, laughing, and simply existing in the same space feels like stepping into a dream. She cared for me with a tenderness so genuine, it felt like I was part of her family.
And yet, deep down, I couldn't help but wonder. Was this kindness simply her way of repaying what I had done for her? Or was it a reflection of who she truly was—a woman with a heart so pure, so giving? I couldn't reconcile how she could see herself as a bad daughter when, to me, she was the most beautiful, compassionate soul I had ever encountered.
After dinner, the spell began to break. Reality whispered that it was time for me to leave. With a heavy heart, I gathered my backpack and walked toward the door, her presence steady beside me. Each step felt like the end of something precious, something I wasn't ready to let go of just yet.
"Thank you so much for everything, it's wondefful!. The food was delicious, and I can only hope I get to enjoy it again someday."
Her smile was warm, radiant even
"Of course, take care."
I was almost at the door, about to step out, when her smile struck me in my tracks a sudden, unexpected storm. It wasn't just a smile, it was a flame.
It was the kind of smile that could melt all resolve, the walls I'd built to keep my emotions in check. But without thinking, I found myself stepping back into her house. My bag thudded to the floor as I pulled her into my arms, holding her close, the distance between us in a heartbeat, her body fitting against mine like she belonged there.
She didn't have time to react, to even be startled. Her surprise is still lingering in her eyes as I claimed her lips with mine. The kiss was deep, urgent, hungry and unapologetic. I fought to keep it going, ignoring the subtle tension of her resistance, daring to believe she would surrender to this moment as much as I had.
"Punish me…" I whispered hoarsely against her lips, my voice pleading wrapped in defiance.
"Punish me for crossing the line."
She stood there, confusion flickering in her eyes, and in that moment of helplessness, she turned away from me. The world seemed to still as I froze, unable to move, unable to breathe. But then, as the silence pressed down on me, I forced myself to leave, my steps heavy with an ache I couldn't quite name.
I couldn't shake the feeling that she had no real emotions for me, not the kind I hoped for. And yet, she didn't push me away this time—not like before. It was as if a tiny crack had formed in the wall between us, but was it enough to mean something?
Did you grow feelings for me too? Or have you simply mastered the art of hiding them? I search for answers in every glance, every pause, but God remains silent, offering me no sign, no direction. All I have is this fragile hope, trembling in the quiet spaces between us.
I long to kiss her, to let the moment stretch endlessly, savoring the taste of her lips. My hands yearn to trace the softness of her skin, to hold her close and feel the warmth of her body pressed against mine. I dream of wrapping her in my arms, of cradling her through the quiet hours of the night.
But does she feel even a whisper of what I feel? Does her heart stir the way mine does at the thought of her?
I need her—more than words can convey, more than I dare admit. Tonight, I want her by my side. My heart aches with a yearning so profound, it leaves me raw, vulnerable, and helpless against the weight of this longing.
The morning feels unbearably heavy, the weight of it pressing against my skull as if the world itself is determined to make me suffer. My head is throbbing, relentless, and my body refuses to obey, sluggish and weak. No, I can't afford to fall ill now. I struggle to sit up, reaching for my phone on the table. The screen flickers to life, revealing the time—half past nine.
"Sh*t."
Nita had called twice, both times at 8:40, and now I need to call her back.
"Good morning," she answers with a warm tone, though it feels distant in my haze of discomfort. She asked about my health, concern evident in her voice.
Continued...