✧ He was my desire; I was his obsession. ✧
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
"I will not chase you, and I am certain that once you leave, you will vanish from the face of the earth. However, know this, Taara: the instant I noticed a movement on...
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After days spent navigating the sterile, fluorescent-lit halls of the hospital, returning here with Athwa felt like a bittersweet relief. He was bedridden, his condition requiring him to rest while he healed.
The doctor's orders were clear: no unnecessary movement, no exertion. It was my responsibility now to ensure he adhered to those instructions.
The cook we'd hired was an unexpected blessing; I barely knew the difference between a skillet and a saucepan, let alone how to make a meal that was both nutritious and palatable.
Athwa's room had become a haven of sorts, a sanctuary where I could focus all my attention on him. The light from the bedside lamp casts a warm, gentle glow, adding a touch of tranquillity to the room.
"Hey," I said, softly walking in with a tray of food that the cook had prepared.
I placed it on the small table beside his bed, then sat down in the chair that had become my new favourite spot. His eyes were closed, but his breathing was steady, a reassuring rhythm that kept me grounded. Memories of the car drive are still fresh and bitter in my mind.
His eyes fluttered open slowly, meeting mine with a look full of fondness and gratitude mixed with exhaustion. "How are you feeling today?"
"Better," he whispered, his voice rough but sincere. "Thanks to you."
I smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. "You don't have to thank me, Athwa."
I watched him eat, taking small sips of soup and bites of bread. Each movement was a reminder of the fragility of his condition, and it made me all the more determined to ensure he had everything he needed.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, his voice stronger but still frail.
I nodded, though it wasn't entirely true. "Well enough," I said, my voice distant. "How's the soup? Is it okay?"
"It's perfect," he said, smiling softly. "You always know just what I need."
My eyes wandered over the framed photographs on the bedside table—pictures of happier times, of us together, smiling and carefree.
"Remember this one?" he asked, pointing weakly to a photo of us at the beach, laughing and holding hands.
"Yeah," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. "We were so happy then."
"We'll get back to that," he said, his tone determined. "I promise."
I forced a smile, my heart aching with the weight of unspoken words. "I hope so."
