After the ceremony, I lingered for one more day with my family, but as the hours slipped away, I felt the weight of everything catch up with me. When the final goodbyes were said, I retreated to my room in the sleek, urban condominium, the city lights casting faint shadows against the windows.
The exhaustion seeped into my bones, a quiet kind of weariness that left me hollow, drained of any energy I had left to give, my energy slipping away like water through clenched fingers. The weight of my father's death still presses on me, sharp and relentless, even after all these years. The memory hasn't dulled; it's as vivid as if it happened yesterday.
What hope do I have of healing when I remain the target of my mother's ceaseless blame? It's as if accusing me brings her some twisted sense of relief, a balm for her grief. In her eyes, I will always be the one at fault, the one he blamed—and that thought burns deep.
I long for the day I can tell this story to Solinka, free of tears and the catch in my throat. But right now, I need her. I ache to feel her presence, to hold her close without needing to say a word. Yet, she's not here.
The house is empty of her warmth. I tell myself she must be out somewhere, but the silence in her absence feels heavier than ever.
She must be at the family gathering by now, surrounded by joy and laughter, savoring delicious food, and chatting away with her mom, her dad, and her siblings. I can almost picture it—her radiant smile, the warmth of her voice as she shares stories and jokes in that lovely way she does.
I can't help but imagine it all, though the thought feels like a bittersweet ache. A few hours ago, she sent me a short message on Telegram—just a quick note. I've read it over and over since then, clinging to it like a lifeline, as if her words could bridge the quiet distance between us.
As I stepped into my apartment, the soft glow of the evening sky fading behind me, I couldn't help but smile at the message lingering on my phone:
Let me know when you get home. Be safe.
It had been a long day, but her words felt like a warm embrace, even from miles away.
I tapped out a quick reply, my fingers hesitant for only a moment:
I'm home from my father's hometown now, Solin. Are you at home?
Four minutes later, my phone buzzed, her response lighting up the screen:
Glad that you got home safe. Have you had dinner yet?
I hesitated before replying, the truth too raw to sugarcoat.
I didn't. I lost my appetite.
Her reply came almost instantly, a quiet insistence that made me smile again.
No, eat something.
Where are you?
I asked, curiosity and longing intertwining.
I'm at my sister's house.,
"Didn't you gather?"
Tomorrow evening. We're waiting for my auntie from abroad, then we'll have it together.
I see!
I wrote, my fingers slowing on the keyboard.
Don't you come home tonight?
A pause, and then her reply:
Umm no, not.
The words slipped out before I could overthink them:
I miss you so much.
Her reply was simple but enough to make my chest ache.
Me too. Take care.
So, she misses me too, my dear. The thought alone fills me with a quiet happiness that spreads through me like warm sunlight. She asked in her next message.
How is your wound?
Her words touch me gently, like a hand brushing against my shoulder.
It's gotten a little better. I replied.
Okay. She typed back. There's a pause before another message appears.
What are you doing right now?
I wait, watching the screen, imagining her hesitation before she finally answers:
Just lying on my bed.
The image of her, soft and relaxed, floats into my mind.
I want to hear your voice.
I type impulsively, unable to hold back.
And then my phone rings.
Her name flashes on the screen, and for a moment, I'm overwhelmed. A flood of emotions rises in my chest—longing, relief, and something I can't quite name. I answer, my heart racing, and as her voice wraps around me, the world feels a little brighter, a little closer, a little more whole.
"Hi," she greeted, her voice as sweet as a melody.
"Solin…" I managed to say, but the rest of the words caught in my throat.
"Yes?" she prompted gently, her gaze steady.
"I…" My voice faltered.
"You need to eat something and take your medicine," she said, cutting through my hesitation with quiet authority.
"Yes, I will," I replied softly, the weight of her care settling over me like a warm blanket.
Her expression shifted, a hint of curiosity sparkling in her eyes.
"Did your mom notice your injuries, by the way?"
The question landed like a jolt, catching me off guard.
"She did," I admitted, lowering my gaze. "And she scolded me a lot."
Her laugh was light, almost musical.
"Really? That just means she loves you and worries about you."
Her words surprised me, stirring thoughts I'd never considered before.
"You know," she continued, her tone bright and teasing, "it's kind of unfortunate, though. Coming home all battered like that. But hey, you're not a bad boy anymore, right? It was just an accident."
I couldn't help but laugh.
"You're making fun of me, huh?"
I heard her chuckle, then she replied,
"Does it sound like I'm joking?"
"It does."
She chuckled, a soft laugh escaping her lips.
"You even laugh at yourself. You told me once you were a bad boy."
"I did. And…" I trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
She tilted her head, curious.
"And what?"
"And I can't wait until tomorrow… seeing you again, darling."
I could hear her breath, Her cheeks may flushed faintly right now.
"Red."
"Yes…?"
"I'll be back tomorrow. Take care and rest well," she murmured, her voice gentle.
I smiled softly, warmth filling my chest. "Yes."
"Good night," she whispered.
"Good night, my dear love," I replied, my words carrying a tenderness only for her.
She said she would return tomorrow, yet my heart aches with a yearning so deep, I wish tomorrow would unfold in an instant. Stars, I beg you, shorten this endless night and bring her back to me now.
The hours stretch on, heavy and unbearable, and with each passing moment, the distance between us grows. I miss her more than words can capture, more than the silence that hangs in the air. Please, make time bend, and let me hold her once again.
Continued...