I WAS JUST A SERVANT

Zenande hated mornings.

They reminded her of what she couldn't do — of how the sun rose without her help, how the world turned while she remained in the same chair, staring out the same window, with the same thoughts circling like hawks.

She had hardly slept.

Dreams had made her restless again — dreams of Nokwanda brushing her hair, dreams of soft hands adjusting blankets, dreams where warmth wasn't scary.

Now she sat stiff in her wheelchair, staring at the half-fogged window, clutching her robe too tightly. She didn't know what to do with her feelings. They were growing. Uncontrolled. Dangerous.

And she was angry about it.

Nokwanda knocked and entered.

"Morning," she said softly, setting the tray down. "I made the soft porridge you liked yesterday."

Zenande didn't respond.

Nokwanda walked to the table, opened the curtains further to let in light, and turned with a soft smile. "Your physio said we can try the leg stretch bands today. Want to give it a go?"

"I'm not a child," Zenande snapped, voice cutting. "Stop talking to me like I'm delicate."

Nokwanda blinked. "I didn't mean to—"

"Stop. Just stop with the soft tone. You think because I'm in a wheelchair I need pity? Huh?"

"I don't pity you—"

"You're just another girl here for a job," Zenande said, voice sharper now. "Don't act like you care."

Nokwanda froze.

"I care," she said, quiet but firm. "But if you don't want me to say it, I won't."

Zenande turned away, gripping the armrests of her chair.

"Then go. I don't want anyone here today."

Nokwanda hesitated… then nodded and walked out.

But as she closed the door, her chest ached — because she hadn't done anything wrong, yet Zenande looked at her like she was the enemy.

Downstairs, Nokwanda stood in the hallway, her hands clenched into fists. The words had cut deeper than she expected.

She didn't cry.

But she wanted to.

She was starting to care too much, and maybe that was her mistake.

Later that evening, it rained again. Harder this time.

Zenande didn't call for help. She stayed in her chair, refusing dinner. She let the cold settle around her like punishment.

She was falling for Nokwanda — and it terrified her.

She had loved a man once. Married him. Trusted him.

And he left the moment she became inconvenient.

Now here was Nokwanda — quiet, strong, soft — and Zenande was starting to need her.

But if she let her in, wouldn't it just end the same?

Didn't everyone leave eventually?

Wasn't love just pain dressed as sweetness?

A soft knock.

She didn't answer.

The door opened anyway.

Nokwanda stepped in, holding a towel and warm blanket.

"You didn't eat."

Zenande looked at her, red-eyed. "I told you to go."

"You've had a bad day. That's all. I've had those too."

Zenande stared, throat tight. "Why won't you leave me alone?"

"Because part of you doesn't want me to."

Zenande's eyes filled. She turned her head sharply.

"I hate that you see through me," she whispered.

"And I hate that you're hurting, but won't let anyone in."

Nokwanda walked over, gently placed the blanket over her lap, then took a towel and softly patted the tears off Zenande's cheek.

Zenande froze.

No one had touched her face like that in years.

Not since the accident.

Not since the man who once called her 'my queen' left her bleeding on a hospital bed.

Now here was this servant — this girl — who wasn't running.

Who looked at her like she mattered.

Like she was still worthy of being held.

And something in Zenande broke.

She grabbed Nokwanda's wrist suddenly.

Their eyes locked.

The room was silent.

"I'm scared," Zenande admitted, voice breaking. "I don't even know why."

Nokwanda leaned down, gently rested her forehead against Zenande's.

"You're allowed to be scared."

"I've never… felt this way. About a woman."

"You don't have to name it. Just feel it."

Zenande's hands trembled.

Then — she let go.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"For not leaving."

That night, Nokwanda stayed with her.

No kissing. No confessions.

Just presence.

She sat on the edge of the bed, holding Zenande's hand as she fell asleep.

And for the first time in months, Zenande didn't dream of pain.

She dreamed of peace.

Of gardens.

Of brushing hair.

Of eyes that didn't judge.

And of love — not loud, not rushed — but the kind that waits patiently, even when pushed away.