I WAS JUST A SERVANT

The morning sun poured gently through the curtain gaps, laying golden strips across Zenande's floor. She sat at her usual post — by the window, her wheelchair angled just right so she could see the jacaranda trees swaying in the breeze. Outside was life, motion, freedom. Inside… stillness.

She sipped her tea without expression.

Downstairs, she could hear Nokwanda's movements: the soft closing of a cabinet, the low hum of a melody, the clink of dishes being rinsed. She always moved with rhythm — like a heartbeat the house had forgotten it needed.

Zenande closed her eyes and let the sound of Nokwanda fill the spaces her own silence had built.

She hated it.

She hated how aware she had become.

She hated that every sound Nokwanda made — every whisper of fabric, every breath — settled too deeply in her skin.

Nokwanda knocked lightly and entered the room carrying a tray.

"Breakfast, Miss Zenande," she said gently.

Zenande didn't look at her.

"I'm not hungry."

"I'll just leave it here for you."

Nokwanda placed the tray on the small table beside her and reached to straighten the pillow behind Zenande's back.

"I said I'm not hungry," Zenande snapped.

Nokwanda didn't flinch. She gently adjusted the pillow anyway, her fingers brushing the soft silk of Zenande's robe.

Zenande tensed at the contact.

"You don't listen."

"I do," Nokwanda replied calmly. "But I've also learned not to take everything people say at face value when they're hurting."

Zenande turned to glare at her, but she paused.

Nokwanda wasn't afraid.

She met her eyes with that same quiet steadiness, unshaken and warm.

Zenande looked away first.

"Fine. Leave it."

Nokwanda returned later that afternoon to help Zenande bathe.

These were the moments Zenande hated most — the moments when she felt exposed, helpless. She usually screamed at nurses. Demanded privacy she couldn't physically manage. Told everyone to leave her alone.

But Nokwanda… was different.

She didn't rush.

She didn't gawk.

She didn't speak unless it was to ask permission.

"Would you like me to lift your legs now?" she asked softly.

Zenande nodded stiffly, looking past her.

When Nokwanda lifted her legs and guided them gently into the tub, Zenande let out a slow breath — not from pain, but from something else. Something tighter. Something scarier.

Her fingers trembled slightly as Nokwanda adjusted the water temperature.

"You okay?" Nokwanda asked.

Zenande snapped back into her body. "I'm fine."

But she wasn't.

She wasn't fine.

Because something about the way Nokwanda handled her — not like glass, not like a burden — made her feel things she didn't want to name.

That evening, after dinner, Zenande sat in her wheelchair by the garden door. She had insisted it be left open — just a crack — so she could hear the wind and the chirps of distant birds.

She had asked for it silently, of course. Simply stared at the door until Nokwanda opened it.

And now, as she sat with her lap blanket tucked across her legs, she watched Nokwanda walk across the garden with a watering can. The flowers needed attention. So did the trees. So did she.

Zenande hated metaphors, but she felt like one lately — a tree uprooted, left dry in the middle of a mansion full of nothing.

But Nokwanda… she was water.

Not the wild kind that destroyed.

The slow kind that healed.

She didn't know how to describe what she was feeling — only that she couldn't stop watching the girl. The way she tucked a loose braid behind her ear. The way her back curved gently as she leaned over a plant.

Zenande's throat went dry.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

She had been with a man. A man who left. A man who made her feel ordinary and unloved. And now this woman, this servant — younger, gentler — was making her feel things she had no name for.

Desire.

Shame.

Hope.

Fear.

She looked away sharply, ashamed of the warmth in her cheeks.

In her room, Nokwanda noticed how quiet Zenande had been lately — quieter than usual, even for someone living behind emotional bars. She was less cruel. Less snappy. But also… less distant.

Nokwanda didn't let herself imagine too much. She was a worker. A helper. She didn't come here for dreams.

Still, something about Zenande made her linger longer than she should.

One night, Nokwanda found Zenande awake at 2 a.m.

She had gone to check if the windows were shut against the wind and saw the light beneath Zenande's door.

She knocked.

"Go away," Zenande snapped.

"I saw your light on. Are you okay?"

Silence.

Then, "Can't sleep."

Nokwanda pushed the door open gently. Zenande sat in her chair, staring out at the dark sky. Her blanket had slipped off her lap. Her hair was unbrushed. Her shoulders looked tired — more tired than usual.

Without asking, Nokwanda walked over, picked up the blanket, and tucked it over her legs.

"You don't have to do that," Zenande whispered.

"I know."

She moved to brush Zenande's hair softly with her fingers, pausing when Zenande's eyes met hers.

They didn't speak.

But in the quiet, something passed between them. Something raw and real.

Zenande looked away first.

"You should go."

Nokwanda nodded, stood, and walked to the door.

"Goodnight, Miss Zenande."

Zenande didn't answer.

Because her throat was too full of words she didn't know how to say.

The next morning, Nokwanda found a single rose on her breakfast tray.

No note.

No explanation.

Just a red rose beside her plate of toast.

She blinked, unsure, but smiled.

Zenande never mentioned it.

That afternoon, Nokwanda caught her watching again. This time, Zenande didn't look away fast enough.

"Is something wrong?" Nokwanda asked.

Zenande's expression hardened. "You ask too many questions."

"You stare a lot," Nokwanda said, lips twitching.

Zenande's cheeks flushed. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I wasn't trying to."

Zenande turned back to the window.

But her hand trembled slightly in her lap.

Later that night, Zenande wrote in a notebook she never let anyone see. Pages filled with broken thoughts.

Why does she make me feel like I'm still human?

Why do I want her to stay more than anything, and also want her to leave so I can breathe again?

Why do I dream of her hands, her eyes, her voice, when I don't even know what this feeling is?

She closed the notebook.

She looked out the window.

And she whispered to herself, "Please… don't let her leave."