𝐌𝐚𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐤𝐡, a 24-year-old kind-hearted girl who stands at 5'4" with striking green eyes. She works at a small company and has learned to live life on her own terms, creating her own world after being unloved by those around her. Deter...
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The soft hum of the television was barely a distraction as I rose from the couch, my wrist throbbing slightly from where he had grabbed it earlier. I took the small first aid kit in my hand, determined to tend to the cut on my palm, but his voice stopped me cold.
"Let's eat dinner," I said, trying to sound casual, but my heart raced with anxiety. He leaned over and gently wiped away the tears that had escaped my eyes, his touch both tender and unnerving.
"I don't deserve tears—no one deserves tears; they're precious. Okay? Don't cry." His words were soothing, but they only made my emotions more tangled. I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
He started to say something else, but I cut him off with a sharp snap of my fingers. "Will you stop and let me speak?" My voice trembled with frustration. He shut his mouth, those piercing blue eyes fixed on me, waiting.
"Let's just eat dinner. I'm hungry," I said, forcing a smile that felt foreign on my lips. He smiled back, and for a moment, the tension between us dissipated. Rising from the couch, he walked into his room, leaving me to venture into the kitchen.
As I began heating the curry, his voice broke through the silence. "So, what did you cook?" He leaned against the kitchen sink, watching me intently. I ignored him, focusing on th simmering pot on the stove.
"You know, Mom thought you would burst into her," he said, his tone light but carrying an undertone of something darker. He leaned closer, standing beside me now.
"Why?" I asked, turning off the stove and serving the curry into bowls. My hands shook slightly as I handed him one.
"Because of me you got fever and got hurt. She thought you would lecture her that she didn't raise me well," he explained, taking the bowl from my hand.
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Taking the bowl, I moved past him, feeling his presence like a weight on my chest.
"Step aside," I said, trying to move forward, but he still stood there, blocking my path. My frustration bubbled over. "You want another smack on your head?" My voice rose, and he finally stepped aside, allowing me to walk out of the kitchen.
Entering the hall, my heart pounded in my chest. Every time he came close, my breath caught in my throat. I was about to turn when he appeared behind me, his voice cracking with emotion.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. I turned to face him, and my heart ached at the sight of his glistening eyes. He gently took my palm, pressing his trembling finger against it.
"Sir—" I began, but he put his finger to my lips, silencing me.
"You know, two hours ago, I was about to die, and I regret not asking for forgiveness," he confessed, his voice breaking. My heart thumped wildly against my ribcage, fear and confusion swirling within me.
