[The Legacy Series] REDAMANCY - Love's Timeless Path

41st Note

(Rajendra)

—

My eyelids fluttered open, revealing the stark white expanse of the hospital ceiling. The room was filled with the sterile scent of disinfectant, and a dull ache throbbed in my head, synchronized with the pulsating beats of my heart. Panic surged within me as I struggled to piece together.

Where was I?

A rustle beside me made me turn. I could see Wimar there, sitting in a chair, concern etched on his face.

"Mas?" His voice was a gentle echo in the hushed atmosphere of the room. "God, finally, you're awake!"

"Wim?" My voice rasped, rough and unfamiliar, such a foreign sound in the quiet room. My throat felt like sandpaper, and a wave of dizziness washed over me. I tried to lick my lips, but they were dry and cracked.

Drawing closer, Wimar's expression softened with a mixture of worry and relief. "Mas, you had us all worried sick."

My mind raced, trying to grasp the gravity of the situation. "What... what happened?" I croaked; the question heavy with a dread I couldn't explain.

Wimar's gaze held mine, his eyes filled with a solemn understanding. "You were in bad shape when they brought you in," he explained gently. "Malnutrition, exhaustion... You've been pushing yourself too hard, Mas. Non-stop surgeries, barely any rest."

His words were accusations, but laced with concern. I knew he was right. I'd been so focused on running from my problems that I'd neglected the most basic thing: myself.

"How long...?" The question escaped my lips, barely a whisper, yet laden with the weight of uncertainty.

"A week," Wimar said, his voice dropping. "A whole week. You've been out cold."

A week?

Shame turned to a cold dread that coiled in my gut.

"Look. We'll get you back on your feet, alright?" Wimar said, his voice softer now. "You're a good doctor, Mas. One of the best in our batch. But listen to your body, okay? You can't help anyone if you're down yourself."

Amidst the haze of my thoughts, one question burned with urgency. "Did Haira come?" The mere mention of her name brought a mix of longing and apprehension.

Wimar's expression tightened, a flicker of concern crossing his features. "Let's talk, Mas," he suggested, his tone urging caution."

Dread settled like a heavy stone in my gut. "Talk about what?" I pressed, my voice betraying a desperate need for answers.

Wimar hesitated again. "I don't want to say this, but you're sick because you want to run from your problem with her, right?"

"But Haira," I pressed, the words catching in my throat as I struggled to articulate my thoughts.

"She's worried about you." Suddenly, the last person I wanted to meet came into my room. "Mas Wim."

"Dip, hey, have you met Mas Jagad at the front?"

He nodded in response to Wimar's question. "I was immediately told to come in by him."

I held my dizzy head. Seeing Pra putting red tulips in a clear vase on the nightstand next to my bed.

"Did she visit? Did she know?"

Pra nodded.

"She was quite shocked then. You know, the look, yeah?" He looked at Wimar, asking my friend for approval, which was answered with a nod. "When her face becomes rigid and overly calm,"

"Ah, yes, I know that," I murmured.

"She was angry and worried that something might go wrong with you because of her."

"Cute." I chuckled; the sound was dry and hollow. "She's usually such a rational woman, so to think she was worried I was on my deathbed because of a mere fever..."

Wimar sighed. "Mas, it's not just fever; you're really in bad shape, you know."

My hand drifted up to rub at my face, the stubble prickling against my fingertips. "Maybe I should've just gotten really sick," I muttered, the words heavy with a self-deprecating humor that fell flat. "So, she would pay attention to me."

Wimar snorted, his gaze flickering to the IV drip snaking its way into my arm. "Spare me the dramatics, Mas. You know I disapprove of your melodramatic attempts to win affection."

"I know you are annoyed that I talk like that," I mumbled, the fight momentarily leaving me. "But I like it when she pays attention to me. I was so happy when she cared for a little more of me."

As I sank back into the pillows, a single, choked sob escaped my lips. The path to recovery stretched before me, shrouded in mist as the white walls seemed to close in, suffocating me with the weight of my own failings. The first step was a terrifying prospect — the possibility of losing the one person who mattered most.

Pra's gaze softened, a well of unspoken pity in its depths.

"I won't dare to ask for her love." I rasped, the words scraping raw against my throat. "But how can she expect me not to love her when I've already fallen so deeply for her?"

"Mas, you need to stop talking." Wimar warned me because my voice was getting hoarse and my throat was getting sore.

But I ignored his words and continued babbling. "I feel like I'll break apart into a million pieces and die if she hates me."

"What makes you love her?" Pra suddenly asked me. Shrugging his shoulders. "Just curious."

"It's a love that demands nothing in return," I whispered, the words tumbling out like a confession. "Unconditional, unwavering. But if reasons are what you seek, then I could list a thousand things, each deserving its own comma."

A sense of calm washed over me when I told him about my perspective on her.

"There is no need for pretense; there is no mask to hold. The moments we share are precious enough to outweigh any hardship. I'd bow a thousand times if it meant keeping her by my side. Because the greatest fear that gnaws at my soul is the chilling emptiness that would follow her absence."

The words bubbled up within me, like a stream waiting to be released. How could I possibly condense a love this vast into a single conversation?

This love was for a woman named Haira Darmana.

"Falling in love with her was like catching a melody on a bustling street. The singer, the lyrics, all lost in the din of a bustling street." A bitter smile twisted my lips. "Yet, the rhythm snagged on my soul, a hypnotic allure that demanded I chase its fading notes until they were swallowed by the roar of a thousand engines."

I looked at him. "That's exactly what it feels like. It was that intangible certainty, like meeting a stranger whose face held the echo of a forgotten dream. An inexplicable 'rightness' settled in your gut, a warmth that spread outwards, painting the world in hues you never knew existed. Suddenly, we fell in love and enjoyed it without realizing in which 'tone' it made everything start to feel right."

Pra's gaze held a knowing warmth. A chuckle escaped his lips.

"Yeah, I think I know how it feels." A faint puff of air escaped his lips, barely audible in the quiet room. "I know, it was stupid of me to ask you something like that."

His hand stroked one of the tulip petals that colored my room. "This flower is her favorite," he murmured, more to himself than me. "Said it reminded her of..." His voice trailed off; he was lost in thought. "Something important, but I don't know what it is."

The revelation struck me like a rogue wave. The flowers, a fragile token of my feelings for her, were her favorites.

Tears welled in my eyes, hot and unexpected. That day, the floodgates opened, washing over me with the raw intensity of a child's grief. It was a storm of emotions, a tempest brought on by the sweetest, most agonizing truth.