Soulful (TayNew)

Part -2

Chapter 2: The First Words

New sat on the cold tiled floor of the kitchen, his burned hands trembling in his lap. The pain was unbearable, but the loneliness hurt more. He had tried. He had tried so hard to make something for himself in this house—to feel like he belonged. But after six months, nothing had changed.

Tay still ignored him.

He had woken up early today, determined to make an effort, to step forward in their relationship. He had convinced himself that if he tried, if he learned about Tay, if he gave him reasons to see him, maybe… just maybe, Tay would acknowledge his existence.

But it had all gone wrong.

He had tried cooking, but without proper experience, he had made a mess. Then, just as he had reached out to turn off the stove, boiling oil had splattered onto his hands. He had screamed, dropping the pan as fire and heat seared his skin. He had rushed to the sink, running his hands under cold water, but the damage had already been done.

He had called Tay. Again and again. But the phone had rung without an answer.

He had no one else to call. No one else who could come.

So, he had waited. Sat there in the empty house, hands burning, tears streaming down his face, hunger gnawing at his stomach, but the worst part—the very worst part—was the silence.

The silence that told him, once again, that he was alone.

Now, as he sat in the living room, curled up on the couch, the door finally creaked open.

The sound startled him. He wiped his tears quickly, trying to look composed.

Footsteps.

Tay.

New didn’t move, afraid that if he blinked, the moment would disappear. Then—

"What happened? Why are you crying?"

New’s heart stopped.

Tay was talking to him.

For the first time in six months, Tay was speaking to him. And not with a cold, indifferent tone, but with something dangerously close to concern.

New swallowed, his lips parting, but no words came out. He was afraid that if he spoke, this fragile moment would shatter.

Tay’s sharp eyes scanned him, and then they landed on his hands.

His expression shifted instantly. The usual coldness in his face vanished, replaced by something New had never seen before—panic.

He stepped closer, reaching out, then stopping as if hesitating. "What happened to your hands?" His voice was lower now, but there was an urgency to it. "How did this happen?"

New was still frozen, staring at him. He had dreamed of this—Tay looking at him, talking to him, seeing him.

His hands throbbed, but he barely noticed. He shook his head slightly. "I… I was trying to cook."

Tay’s jaw clenched. "Are you an idiot? Why didn’t you call me?"

"I did," New whispered. "You didn’t answer."

Tay stiffened. His brows furrowed for a second before he sighed, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "Why didn’t you call someone else?"

New laughed bitterly. "Who else do I have?"

That made Tay pause. For a split second, something flickered across his face—something New couldn’t quite name. But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Tay exhaled harshly. "We need to go to the hospital."

He didn’t wait for New to respond. Instead, he grabbed New’s wrist—gently, almost too gently—and pulled him up from the couch.

New flinched at the contact. Not from pain, but from the fact that Tay was touching him. Holding him.

He felt lightheaded.

By the time they reached the hospital, the pain had fully settled in, making New whimper softly as the doctor examined his burns. Tay stood beside him, arms crossed, watching with a deep frown.

After applying ointment and wrapping his hands in bandages, the doctor turned to Tay. "Make sure he rests. He shouldn't strain his hands for at least a few weeks."

Tay nodded, his expression unreadable.

On the drive home, the car was silent except for the low hum of the engine. New clutched his bandaged hands in his lap, staring at them. He could still feel the warmth of Tay’s grip from earlier, and he hated how much it affected him.

He turned his head slightly, looking at the man beside him. Tay’s eyes were on the road, his jaw tight, his fingers gripping the steering wheel a little too hard.

New bit his lip, gathering his courage. Then, softly—

"Tay."

A pause.

Then, "Hmm?"

New hesitated for a second, then finally asked the question that had been burning inside him for months.

"Why do you hate me so much?"

The air in the car grew heavy.

Tay didn’t answer right away. His grip on the wheel tightened, his posture stiffening.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he replied—

"Because if I don’t, I might not be able to stop myself from caring."