Zenande had always been strong or at least that's what the world thought. But strength was sometimes just silence in disguise, and silence was now the loudest sound in her room.
The sun crept in like a curious child, painting golden fingers across the marble floor, across the wheels of her chair, across her clenched hands. She sat there, stiffly, staring out the window as if trying to command the world to make sense. But the world didn't listen. It never had.
Downstairs, Nokwanda moved with quiet efficiency, preparing breakfast. She had been up for hours, washing, mopping, folding laundry that was barely even dirty. Not because she needed to—but because she didn't know what to do with all the feelings Zenande had unlocked in her.
It had been just two days since they'd kissed.
Two days since the silence between them became a heavy third presence in every room.
Nokwanda couldn't forget the taste of her. The tremble of her hands. The ache in Zenande's voice when she whispered, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't." But it wasn't regret she had seen in her eyes. It was longing. It was fear. And something else Nokwanda hadn't yet named.
And now, it was like they were both pretending nothing had happened. Two strangers trapped in a house full of secrets, and one truth: they wanted each other. Deeply. Dangerously.
She placed the breakfast tray on a polished silver trolley and wheeled it toward Zenande's room. Her hand trembled slightly as she knocked.
No response.
She knocked again, a little firmer. "Miss Zenande?"
A long pause. Then, finally, the door creaked open.
Zenande looked tired. Not physically abut emotionally. As if each thought weighed ten kilograms. Her eyes landed on Nokwanda and for a split second, she softened. Her jaw relaxed. Her shoulders dropped. But just as quickly, she remembered who she was supposed to be.
Cold. Proud. Untouchable.
"You're early," she said, voice flat.
"It's 9:30," Nokwanda replied, wheeling in the tray. "You missed breakfast."
"I wasn't hungry."
"You need to eat, Zenande."
There it was—her name, unadorned by titles or pretenses. Just Zenande. Spoken softly. Like a promise.
Zenande stiffened. "Are you here to feed me or fight me?"
"I'm here because I care," Nokwanda said. "And you can't keep pushing me away every time you feel something."
Zenande's hand clenched around the armrest of her wheelchair. "You think you know me, huh? Just because we kissed? Just because I was weak for one damn second?"
"It wasn't weakness," Nokwanda said firmly, walking closer. "It was real."
Zenande turned her face to the window again. "It was a mistake."
Nokwanda's heart thudded. "Do you mean that?"
Silence.
"Do you?" she asked again.
Zenande didn't answer. Her lips were pressed together, her eyes stormy.
"You don't get to kiss me and then pretend I don't exist," Nokwanda continued. "I'm not your fantasy. I'm not your savior. I'm not here to be a secret you regret."
Zenande wheeled her chair sharply, backing away. "Then leave. If that's what you think this is, then just leave."
But Nokwanda didn't move. Instead, she walked forward, until she stood directly in front of the wheelchair.
"I'm not leaving," she said softly. "Because I see you, Zenande. The real you. The one who wants to be held. The one who's scared to be loved."
Zenande's voice cracked. "You don't know what I've been through."
"Then tell me."
Zenande closed her eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. "I've been hurt. Over and over. People leave. People lie. People love you until it's no longer convenient. I don't believe in love anymore."
"I do," Nokwanda whispered. "And I think you do too. You're just afraid."
Zenande looked up, broken and beautiful. "Why are you still here?"
"Because I love you already," Nokwanda said. "And I think… deep down… you love me too."
Zenande blinked, shocked. The words hit her like thunder. She shook her head slowly. "You can't. Not yet."
"But I do," Nokwanda whispered.
Zenande looked away. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't stop her heart from pounding like war drums inside her chest.
She opened her mouth to speak—but nothing came out.
Nokwanda stepped back. "I'll leave you alone for now. But I'm not giving up on you, Zenande."
As she turned to leave, Zenande whispered, barely audible, "I don't want you to."
The door clicked shut softly behind her.
And for the first time in years, Zenande felt something stir inside her.
Hope.
Later that evening, the air in the house grew thick with unspoken feelings. The kind that draped over everything—walls, windows, words left unsaid. Nokwanda stood in the kitchen, chopping carrots with more force than necessary, trying to focus on the rhythm of the knife. Chop. Chop. Chop. But her thoughts kept drifting back upstairs.
To Zenande.
To her pain.
To her whispered, "I don't want you to."
It had taken everything Nokwanda had not to run back to her and hold her in that moment. But she knew Zenande needed space. She was unraveling. And Nokwanda had to let her unravel fully if she ever hoped to stitch her back together.
Behind her, footsteps echoed softly.
She turned.
It was Zenande.
In her wheelchair, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and pajama shorts. Her eyes were puffy. Her hands gripped the wheels tightly, as if this visit downstairs took everything out of her.
"Hey," Nokwanda said gently.
Zenande didn't answer.
She rolled toward the kitchen table and stopped, resting her arms on it. "I didn't mean to hurt you earlier."
Nokwanda dried her hands and turned off the stove. "I know."
Zenande took a shaky breath. "I've spent so long hiding. Pretending. Controlling everything around me so I wouldn't feel out of control."
She paused. Then, almost in a whisper, "But you… you undo me."
Nokwanda walked slowly toward her and pulled out a chair across the table. She sat. "I'm not here to break you, Zenande. I'm here to love you. To stand beside you. Even when you're scared."
Zenande let out a bitter laugh. "Love? I've only ever seen love destroy. My parents loved each other so much, they forgot they had children. My ex-husband loved me enough to marry me, then enough to leave when I became inconvenient."
"But that's not love," Nokwanda replied. "That's selfishness wearing a pretty dress."
Zenande blinked. "Then what is love to you?"
"Love is staying," Nokwanda said, voice steady. "Love is listening. Love is being soft in a world that keeps trying to make you hard."
For a moment, silence settled between them. Zenande looked away, wiping at the corner of her eye. "What happens if I open the door and you don't like what's inside?"
"I'll still stay."
Zenande met her gaze, stunned. "Even if I'm broken?"
"Especially then," Nokwanda whispered.
Zenande swallowed hard. Then, voice trembling, she said, "My accident... it wasn't just an accident."
Nokwanda leaned in, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"
Zenande lowered her voice, like the house might hear her. "The car I was in… it was tampered with. Someone wanted me gone."
Nokwanda's heart stopped. "Are you saying someone tried to kill you?"
Zenande nodded slowly. "Yes. And I think it was someone close."
Silence.
Nokwanda stood slowly and walked around to kneel beside her. She reached for Zenande's hand. "You don't have to carry this alone anymore."
Zenande gripped her hand tightly. "I'm scared, Nokwanda."
"I know. But you're not alone."
And in that moment, something shifted. Not just between them—but inside Zenande. For the first time since the accident, she didn't feel like a victim.
She felt… loved.
The next morning arrived quietly. Rain tapped against the windows like soft fingers drumming a warning. The clouds hung low, mirroring the heaviness still lingering in the air. Zenande hadn't slept much. Her body ached, but not from her injuries—from remembering. From the shadows she had finally let slip out of her lips.
Someone had tried to kill her.
And now, someone knew.
Nokwanda moved around the house like gentle thunder—present, strong, and always aware of Zenande's silences. She brought tea to her bedside without a word, placed soft jazz on the speaker, and stayed nearby but didn't press her to talk. That, more than anything, comforted Zenande.
By late afternoon, they sat together in the lounge. Zenande had a blanket over her legs. Nokwanda had her journal in her lap but hadn't written a word.
"I want to talk," Zenande said softly.
Nokwanda looked up. "I'm listening."
Zenande took a breath. "There were warning signs. The brakes failed, but that wasn't the first strange thing. I kept finding documents moved, emails missing… My ex-husband said I was being paranoid."
Nokwanda frowned. "And after the crash?"
"He disappeared. Took most of our money and left me in the hospital. It was like I became a ghost overnight." Her voice cracked. "I hated myself for needing people. For being weak."
"You're not weak," Nokwanda said firmly.
"I was. But not anymore."
Zenande reached forward, slowly, and took Nokwanda's hand. "You've shown me something I never expected to feel again."
Nokwanda's eyes softened. "What's that?"
"Desire. Real, tender, terrifying desire." Her thumb gently brushed Nokwanda's palm. "And it scares the hell out of me."
Nokwanda moved closer. "Then let's be scared together."
Their faces inched closer, eyes locking like they were afraid the world might vanish if they looked away. Zenande leaned in, this time without hesitation. Their lips met—not with fire, but with warmth. A kiss that whispered: I see you. I feel you. I want this too.
Zenande broke the kiss, resting her forehead against Nokwanda's. "I've been fighting this so hard."
"Why?"
"Because it's real," Zenande whispered. "And real love hurts when it's taken away."
"I'm not going anywhere," Nokwanda replied. "But we'll move at your pace."
Zenande smiled, a little. "Then stay the night."
"Of course."
They spent the evening curled up on the couch, watching old movies, fingers intertwined under the blanket. No more running. No more fear—at least not alone.
For the first time in years, Zenande felt seen.
And Nokwanda… she felt chosen.
The storm passed in the night, leaving behind the scent of wet earth and a cleaner sky. Zenande woke just before dawn, wrapped in a thick duvet, with Nokwanda's arm around her waist. Her head rested peacefully on Zenande's shoulder.
For a moment, Zenande didn't move.
The quiet hum of the world outside. The rhythm of Nokwanda's breathing. The rise and fall of her chest—steady, calming, real. Zenande hadn't known that intimacy could feel like safety rather than exposure.
Her fingers slowly traced Nokwanda's arm. She felt a lump rise in her throat. This wasn't just about physical desire. It was about belonging. It was about being held without being owned.
Nokwanda stirred softly. Her eyes fluttered open, sleepy but alert. "Hey," she murmured.
"Hey," Zenande whispered back.
They lay like that for minutes before Nokwanda sat up, stretching. "Want coffee?"
Zenande nodded. "Strong."
In the kitchen, Nokwanda moved easily, barefoot in a long T-shirt. Zenande wheeled herself in quietly, just watching her. There was something deeply comforting about seeing another woman take up space in her home like she belonged there.
Because she did.
"Nokwanda…"
She turned, coffee mugs in hand. "Yes?"
Zenande took a breath. "This thing between us. I know we kissed. I know we've shared… more than I ever expected. But I don't want to confuse desire with escape. I need you to know that I care about you. Deeply."
Nokwanda placed the mugs down and moved closer. "Zenande… I've never felt needed the way you make me feel. And it's not about fixing you, or saving you. It's about seeing you."
Zenande's eyes shimmered. "Then let's stop holding back."
Nokwanda reached for her again, and their kiss this time was slower, more open. Zenande parted her lips, inviting her in. The couch became their safe haven. Hands explored, not in haste, but in reverence.
Zenande whispered between kisses, "You make me want to feel again."
"I want all of you," Nokwanda whispered back. "Even the broken pieces."
They undressed each other like they were unwrapping wounds and offering healing instead of judgment. And when their bodies finally moved as one, it wasn't lust—it was release. Connection. Healing.
Afterward, Zenande lay curled against Nokwanda's chest, her head rising and falling with each breath. The silence wasn't awkward. It was sacred.
Zenande broke it softly. "I don't know what the future holds. But I want you in it."
Nokwanda kissed her forehead. "Then that's where I'll be."