I WAS JUST A SERVANT

Zenande woke with a weight on her chest — not physical, but emotional. It lingered like the smell of rain in the morning air. Her fingers were still curled slightly from the way she'd gripped Nokwanda's hand last night.

She stared at the ceiling.

What did I do?

She had let herself soften. Let herself need. And the memory of Nokwanda's touch — her warm palm brushing tears off Zenande's cheek — played over and over like a loop she couldn't escape.

But now, in the daylight, she felt exposed.

Vulnerable.

And that was something she didn't know how to live with.

Nokwanda entered the room with fresh towels and a tray of fruit.

"Good morning," she said gently.

Zenande didn't look at her. "You don't have to stay in here."

"I know."

Still, Nokwanda set the tray down and began opening the curtains.

"You slept early," she added, as if nothing unusual had happened.

Zenande exhaled. "You don't have to pretend nothing happened."

Nokwanda turned, her expression soft. "I wasn't pretending. I was respecting your space."

Zenande finally looked at her — and for a moment, all the sharpness melted from her face.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she confessed. "One minute I want you near… the next, I want to run."

"You don't have to have it all figured out," Nokwanda replied. "I'm still here."

Zenande's gaze dropped to her lap. "Why?"

"Because I care."

Those words landed hard in her chest.

Because deep down, Zenande believed people only stayed until they got tired of her.

And no one had ever stayed this long.

Later that afternoon, while Zenande sat watching the garden, her mother entered unexpectedly.

"You have a visitor," Mrs. Mthembu said with a strange look in her eyes.

Zenande frowned. "Who?"

Her mother hesitated.

"Thabo."

Zenande's entire body stiffened.

Thabo.

Her ex-husband.

The man who married her when she was still perfect in the eyes of society — rich, beautiful, mobile.

The same man who vanished after her accident without a word.

Zenande turned sharply. "Why would you let him into this house?"

"He says he's here to apologize. To make peace."

"I don't want peace from him."

"He's already in the lounge. I thought maybe…"

Zenande turned to Nokwanda, who stood nearby, silent and watching with quiet concern.

"I want him gone," Zenande said.

But something in her chest — bitter and unresolved — said: Maybe I need to hear what this coward has to say.

With hesitation, Zenande asked Nokwanda to wheel her down.

The lounge felt colder than usual.

Thabo stood by the window, tall, in a tailored blazer, hands in his pockets. His face still held that charming smirk he used to win over rooms. But his eyes faltered the moment he saw Zenande.

"Zen," he said softly. "Wow. You look…"

"Don't say it," she interrupted coldly. "You don't get to say how I look."

He nodded, swallowed hard. "Okay."

Nokwanda quietly stepped back, observing from near the stairs.

Zenande's voice was sharp, but her breathing had changed. Faster. Uneven.

"You left me in a hospital bed. You didn't even say goodbye."

"I panicked."

"You ran," she corrected.

"I couldn't handle—"

"What? That I wasn't perfect anymore?"

Thabo looked down. "That I didn't know how to help. I was scared."

Zenande's eyes burned. "I was scared too. But I didn't have the choice to run."

He looked up. "I came back because… I realized what I did. And I wanted to say sorry."

"Too late."

"I didn't come to be with you again, Zen. I know I messed that up forever. But I had to face you. At least once. I owed you that."

Silence.

Zenande blinked. "Do you know what it's like to be looked at like a burden? Like a project?"

He shook his head.

She continued. "Nokwanda's the only one who's ever looked at me like I'm still a woman."

Thabo's eyes briefly flicked toward Nokwanda. Then back.

"Oh," he said quietly. "I see."

"You don't," Zenande snapped. "You never did."

She turned her chair away from him. "We're done."

And just like that, Nokwanda walked forward and wheeled her away.

Upstairs, Zenande stared at the floor.

"I hate him," she said finally.

Nokwanda stayed quiet.

Zenande turned to her. "I thought… when he left, that no one would ever want me again. That I wasn't a woman anymore. Just a chair. A pity case."

"You're not a pity case," Nokwanda said gently. "And you've never stopped being a woman."

Zenande looked up. "Then why can't I stop feeling broken?"

"Because healing isn't instant."

Zenande leaned her head against the window.

Nokwanda moved to her side and knelt.

"I've seen you angry, cruel, proud, soft, scared… and through it all, you've remained powerful."

Zenande's eyes filled.

"I want to be loved," she whispered. "But I'm terrified."

Nokwanda reached up, cupped her face.

"You don't have to be perfect to be loved."

Zenande's breath caught.

They stayed there, face to face — eyes locked.

The air thick between them.

Nokwanda didn't kiss her.

But Zenande almost wished she had.

That night, Zenande didn't write in her notebook.

She didn't dream of Thabo.

She didn't even think about her accident.

She only thought of Nokwanda's hand on her face.

And how it made her feel more alive than anything had in a long, long time.