I WAS JUST A SERVANT

The sun peeked through a break in the clouds that morning — warm, golden, almost playful. It streamed through the large glass windows of Zenande's bedroom and landed across her lap like a quiet blessing.

She sat in her wheelchair, facing the door, waiting.

Nokwanda knocked once and entered, holding a folded blanket and a small, hopeful smile.

"You're up early," she said.

Zenande nodded. "Didn't sleep much."

"You're not in pain, are you?"

Zenande hesitated. "Not the kind you can see."

Nokwanda walked over and crouched down to arrange the blanket around her legs, gentle as always. Her hands brushed against Zenande's calves — and for the first time, Zenande flinched not from shame, but… sensation.

She looked down at her toes.

They had moved.

Later, during their usual stretch session in the exercise room, Nokwanda held Zenande's ankles in both hands and said gently, "Ready?"

Zenande nodded, sweat already forming on her brow. She was tired today — mentally, emotionally — but she was trying.

As Nokwanda guided her left leg into a slow bend, something shifted.

Zenande gasped.

"I felt that," she whispered.

Nokwanda looked up quickly, eyes wide. "You what?"

"There. Right there—when you moved it. I… I felt pressure. I felt it."

Nokwanda's lips parted, stunned — then a wide, warm smile broke across her face.

"You're healing," she said, breathless with joy.

Zenande let out a broken laugh, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my God."

"I told you," Nokwanda said softly. "I told you it would come. You just needed time. You needed someone who—"

She stopped herself.

But Zenande already knew what she'd meant.

"You," Zenande whispered. "I needed you."

Later that day, they sat outside on the patio. Zenande was in her wheelchair, legs covered, a shawl draped over her shoulders. Nokwanda sat beside her in a garden chair, a cup of herbal tea in her hands.

For a while, neither spoke.

The breeze carried the scent of roses and lavender.

Then Zenande broke the silence.

"After the accident… when I woke up and couldn't feel my legs…" she paused, voice cracking. "I didn't cry. Not at first."

Nokwanda looked at her gently. "You were in shock."

"I was proud," Zenande whispered. "Even in pain. I told the nurses I'd walk again. I told my family not to cry."

She stared out into the sky.

"But every night, I screamed into my pillow. I felt dirty. Broken. My husband had only just married me. I knew it was over before he said anything."

"He never deserved you," Nokwanda said.

Zenande turned to her, eyes glassy.

"I stopped believing anyone could ever love me again. I told myself, 'I'm not a woman anymore. Just a body in a chair.'"

"You're more than a body, Zenande."

She bit her lip. "You make me feel that."

Nokwanda swallowed hard.

"I never told anyone what I'm about to tell you," she said softly.

Zenande looked at her. "What?"

Nokwanda stared at her tea cup. "I was in love once. With someone who saw me as a secret."

Zenande blinked.

"She told me I was beautiful," Nokwanda continued. "She told me I was everything she wanted. But she also told me she could never tell anyone about us. She said loving me would ruin her life."

Zenande's heart twisted.

"She married a man three months later."

Silence.

Zenande reached across the armrest and placed her hand over Nokwanda's.

"She didn't deserve you."

Nokwanda met her eyes, finally. "Sometimes I still wonder if I'm just… someone people hide."

Zenande squeezed her hand. "You're not a secret here."

They stared at each other for a long time.

The air between them heavy with things unsaid.

Then Zenande whispered, "You make me want to try again. To feel again. To love again."

Nokwanda didn't answer.

She simply leaned forward.

Zenande didn't pull away.

Their foreheads touched — soft, gentle, trembling.

And in that small, wordless moment, something shifted forever.

That night, Zenande couldn't sleep.

She wheeled herself to the balcony, looking out over the moonlit garden.

She didn't feel broken anymore.

She felt… alive.

And afraid.

But this time, fear didn't mean weakness.

It meant she had something to lose.