The pharmacy door chimed again.
Buhle's breath caught.
Her fingers tightened around the cloth she was still holding, the edges damp from wiping the counter through her tears. She didn't turn around immediately. She couldn't. Her heart was already thudding hard enough to make her vision blur slightly.
She knew it was him.
She felt it.
Her spirit recognized his presence before her eyes confirmed it.
Slowly, she lifted her head.
There he was.
Ntsika stood just inside the doorway, shoulders rising and falling as if he had rushed inside without thinking. His eyes — deep brown with that strange softness she'd seen earlier — scanned the room urgently until they landed on her.
When they did, his whole posture changed.
His chest loosened.
His shoulders dropped.
His expression softened into something unreadable… something raw.
He took one careful step forward.
"Buhle," he said quietly.
Just her name.
But the way he said it felt like an apology, a confession, and a plea all stitched into one breath.
Buhle swallowed hard. "Can I… help you?"
Her voice cracked at the end. She hoped he didn't hear it, but from the way his brows pulled together, he did.
Ntsika looked around, as if making sure no one was watching too closely. Siya was already pretending to pack shelves but was blatantly eavesdropping. An elderly woman waited at the vitamins section, reading labels slowly.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I'm sorry about earlier."
Buhle blinked.
She hadn't expected that.
He continued, voice steady but low. "I didn't want to walk out like that."
"It's fine," she said quickly, looking down.
"It's not."
His tone held firmness this time. A gentle firmness. A sincerity that made her chest tighten painfully.
When she finally met his eyes, she saw conflict swimming behind them — not small conflict, not casual confusion, but the kind of war that could change a person.
"I shouldn't have come back," he admitted. "But something told me to."
Her breath hitched. She didn't know whether it was fear or hope pulling at her ribs.
"Something?" she whispered.
He nodded slowly. "You."
She felt the weight of that word like a physical touch. Her fingers trembled slightly around the cloth.
Buhle took a tiny step back, needing space to breathe. "Ntsika… you have a girlfriend."
She forced herself to say it.
Forced herself to face truth.
His jaw tightened. "I know."
"And she seems… nice," Buhle said quietly, even though that sentence tasted like bitter medicine in her mouth.
"She is," he admitted.
The honesty stung. But it also revealed something deeper in his tone — something hollow.
"But," he continued, "that doesn't change the fact that when I walked out… I felt like I was leaving something unfinished."
Buhle's heart flipped.
He ran a hand over his head — a nervous gesture she was learning quickly. "I argued with Sihle outside. She asked why I was taking so long in here. I couldn't explain it. I didn't even have the words."
Buhle's eyes widened slightly.
"I told her I needed to go home," he said softly. "She left without me."
This shocked her. "You two fought… because of me?"
"No," he said gently. "We fought because I'm not being honest with myself."
Silence fell between them.
Thick. Heavy.
Yet strangely comforting.
Buhle felt her heartbeat in her throat. She knew this was dangerous ground — ground she didn't want to walk on, but somehow felt called to. Something spiritual pulsed quietly beneath this moment, something she couldn't explain.
He looked at her again — really looked at her — and she couldn't look away.
"From the first moment," he said softly, "there was something about you."
A tear escaped her before she could stop it.
He stepped closer instinctively, concern flashing across his face. "Hey… why are you crying?"
She shook her head quickly, wiping it away. "I'm fine. I just… had a long morning."
"That's not all," he said quietly.
He wasn't asking.
He was stating.
She hated how easily he read her.
How quickly he saw her.
"Buhle," he continued, "I didn't come back here to mess with you."
"Then why did you?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"I don't know," he whispered. "All I know is that something in me felt pulled back to you."
Her breath shook. She hadn't meant to cry again, but tears kept gathering in her eyes, hot and overwhelming.
Ntsika reached forward slowly — cautiously — as if giving her ample time to step away.
He didn't touch her.
He simply extended his hand, palm open, hovering near her arm.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly.
The way he asked… it wasn't casual.
It wasn't polite.
It was tender. Concerned. Real.
She stared at his hand. It was warm, steady, waiting. She didn't take it. But she didn't move away either.
"I'm confused," Buhle whispered.
"So am I."
"I'm trying to stay in my lane."
"So am I."
"I'm trying not to… feel things."
"So am I."
The confession slipped from him like he'd been holding it for hours. Maybe days.
Her chest tightened. "You shouldn't say things like that, Ntsika."
"I know."
"But you are saying them."
"I know," he repeated, voice cracking slightly.
A silence stretched between them.
This one was different from earlier — deeper, heavier, full of things neither of them were allowed to speak.
Then the elderly customer cleared her throat softly.
"Excuse me, dear," she called. "Is this good for joint pain?"
Buhle jumped slightly and wiped her cheeks quickly. "Yes! I'm coming."
She hurried over to assist the woman, grateful for the small interruption. Behind her, Ntsika's gaze followed her — not intrusively, but with a kind of ache she had never seen in a man's eyes.
When she finished helping, she returned to the counter, expecting him to have left.
But he was still there.
Still waiting.
Still standing quietly with his hands in his pockets, staring at the floor like he was deep in conflict.
"Buhle," he said again when she approached. "I don't want to make your life complicated."
"You already are," she whispered.
He winced slightly. "I know."
She shook her head slowly. "You shouldn't be here."
"You're right."
"Then why are you here?"
He lifted his gaze, and the truth in his eyes shook her.
"Because walking away from you felt wrong."
Her breath caught again.
"And being near you feels right in a way I don't understand," he continued. "I haven't felt like this in a long time."
"Ntsika…" she breathed, shaking her head. "This can't happen."He stepped closer — carefully — leaving only a small breath of space between them.
"I'm not asking for anything to happen," he said gently. "I'm just… telling you the truth."
Her lips parted, but no words formed.
He leaned in slightly — not enough to invade her space, but enough that she could smell his cologne, warm and subtle. Enough for her heart to trip in her chest.
"You don't have to say anything," he whispered. "I'll go."
A pang hit her heart unexpectedly.
"But before I leave," he added softly, "please don't cry because of me. I didn't come back to hurt you."
Her eyes softened. "You didn't hurt me."
"You sure?" he asked gently.
She looked down. "It's just… emotions. I'll be fine."
He studied her face, then nodded slowly.
"Okay."
He took a step back, his hands sliding out of his pockets — a sign of surrender, not frustration.
"Take care of yourself, Buhle."
She inhaled sharply at the way he said her name — as if it carried meaning he didn't yet know how to express.
"You too," she whispered.
He turned toward the door.
And walked out.
The moment the door closed behind him, her knees weakened. She gripped the counter quickly, breathing hard, trying to calm the storm inside her.
Why did he affect her like this?
Why did her spirit feel so awakened around him?
Why did her heart ache as if she already knew losing him would hurt?
She closed her eyes and whispered, "God… help me."
But before she could steady herself, Siya rushed over, grabbing her arm.
"Buhle!" she whispered fiercely. "Girl, that man came back for YOU! Did you see how he was looking at you? Did you see how stressed he was? Yoh! I've never seen a man that confused in my life!"
Buhle laughed weakly through her tears. "Siya, please… this is not funny."
"I'm not laughing," Siya said, lowering her voice. "I'm saying… be careful. That man is fighting a battle inside his heart."
"I know."
"And you…" Siya said gently, squeezing her arm. "You're fighting one too."
Buhle closed her eyes.
Siya wasn't wrong.
Because the truth was simple — painfully simple.
Ntsika had awakened something in her.
Something she didn't ask for.
Something she didn't expect.
Something she wasn't ready for.
But now, it refused to go back to sleep.
And out in the parking lot, sitting alone in his car with his hands clenched around the steering wheel…
Ntsika whispered to himself:
"What is happening to me?"
Ntsika sat in his car for a long time, the engine off, his breathing uneven, his mind racing in circles he couldn't escape.
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.
"Why… why did I go back inside?"
He already knew the answer.
Because leaving Buhle behind had felt like leaving a piece of himself in that pharmacy.
Because something about her spirit called to him — not forcefully, not seductively, but gently.
Like a whisper from a part of him he had forgotten existed.
He leaned back in the seat, exhaling shakily.
His phone buzzed on the passenger side.
He didn't need to check the screen to know it was Sihle.
A part of him wanted to answer.
A part of him couldn't.
He stared at the pharmacy doors instead.
But this time, he didn't go back in.
He knew he shouldn't.
Not again.
Not today.
He placed his phone on silent, rested his head against the headrest, and whispered:
"God… I'm messing up. Help me."
But all he heard was his own heartbeat — unsteady, confused, and louder than his prayers.
⸻
Inside the pharmacy, Buhle had returned to wiping the counter again, but this time her movements were slower, softer. Her mind was far away from her hands.
She replayed everything.
His voice.
His apology.
The honesty in his eyes.
The gentle way he said her name.
And worse… the look on his face when he finally walked away.
Siya walked up again, pretending to rearrange cough syrups next to her.
"You good?" she asked quietly.
"No," Buhle whispered.
Siya nodded as if she expected the answer. "You want to talk about it?"
"No," Buhle said again, but her voice trembled.
Siya sighed dramatically. "Then let me talk for you."
Buhle looked at her, tired but willing.
"That man," Siya began, "is not just attracted to you. No. He is spiritually bothered by you."
"What do you mean?" Buhle asked.
"I mean," Siya said, lowering her voice even more, "that man walked in here with a woman… and still felt something strong enough to come back alone. Buhle, that's not physical. That's spiritual confusion."
Buhle swallowed hard.
She knew Siya wasn't lying.
"You're in deep trouble," Siya concluded.
"I know," Buhle whispered.
And Siya softened.
"Oh friend," she breathed, pulling her into a quick side hug. "I'm sorry. I know you're a soft person. And your heart… it loves deeply."
"I don't want to love him," Buhle said quickly.
"I know," Siya murmured. "But your spirit recognized him before your mind did. I can see it."
Buhle wiped her eyes again. "I don't even know him."
"Maybe you don't," Siya said softly. "But what if your spirit does?"
Buhle inhaled sharply at that sentence.
Because it echoed something she had been feeling since the first moment she saw him — something she kept fighting.
As if somewhere, somehow, he was already written into her story.
But stories could be rewritten.
He had a girlfriend.
He had a life.
He had a path that didn't include her.
So she whispered the only truth she had:
"I can't be part of this."
⸻
The rest of the day dragged.
Each hour felt like sand falling slowly through an hourglass. Every time the pharmacy door opened, Buhle's heart jumped — hoping and fearing that it might be him again.
But it wasn't.
Customers came.
Customers left.
She smiled.
She served.
She tried to forget.
Yet every breath carried the memory of his eyes.
When her shift finally ended, she walked home slowly, avoiding the busier routes. The air was cool, the sky painted in shades of peach and gold. A soft breeze brushed against her cheek as if trying to comfort her.
She whispered gently, "God… I don't want confusion. I want truth."
As she reached her small apartment, her phone buzzed with a message from her aunt:
"Don't ignore your gifts, Buhle. When your spirit reacts, pay attention."
She froze.
She hadn't told her aunt anything.
Nothing at all.
A shiver ran down her spine.
She typed back:
"What do you mean?"
A moment later, the reply came:
"You'll understand soon. Your spirit is speaking."
Buhle sat on her bed quietly.
What was happening to her?
What was being awakened?
Before she could think too deeply, her phone buzzed again — this time with an unknown number.
Her heart stilled.
She opened the message slowly.
"It's me… Ntsika.
Please don't block me. I just need to speak to you."
Her breath caught.
He messaged her?
But how—
She suddenly remembered: he must have seen her number pop up on the label when she printed his file earlier in the week.
She closed her eyes.
She knew she shouldn't reply.
She knew she shouldn't entertain this.
She knew responding would make everything worse.
So she placed the phone face down on her bed.
But her heart kept pounding in her throat, refusing to calm. After a few minutes she picked it up again, staring at his message without typing anything.
Then the next message arrived:
"I'm outside.
Not because I'm stalking you.
I just… needed to talk."
Her stomach dropped.
She rushed to the window, pulling back the curtain slowly.
And there he was.
Standing near the streetlight.
Hands in his pockets.
Head tilted down.
Just waiting.
He looked exhausted.
Confused.
Troubled in a way she had never seen him.
He wasn't smiling.
He wasn't confident.
He wasn't the smooth, charming man she had imagined him to be.
He looked… human.
Fragile.
Lost.
Their eyes met through the window.
He didn't move.
He didn't wave.
He just looked at her with an expression that stole her breath — something desperate, something vulnerable, something like a silent "please."
Her first instinct was to step back, hide, pretend she didn't see him.
But something in her spirit whispered:
"Face him."
So she stepped outside.
The moment she walked down the small pathway, Ntsika lifted his head slowly. His breath left his lungs in a visible sigh — as if seeing her had relieved a weight he couldn't carry alone.
"Buhle," he said softly.
She wrapped her arms around herself. "Why are you here?"
"I don't know how to explain it," he said, voice heavy. "I tried to drive home. I tried to clear my mind. But something kept pulling me here."
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered.
"I know."
"Then why come?"
He ran a hand over his head again. "Because I can't shake what I felt today. What I felt when I saw you. What I felt when I left you crying—"
"I wasn't—" she tried to deny it.
"You were," he said gently. "And it bothered me more than it should."
Her eyes filled again. "Ntsika… this is wrong. You're with someone."
His jaw tightened. "I know."
"Then respect her."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder," she whispered.
His shoulders dropped.
"I didn't come here to disrespect her," he said softly. "I came here to be honest."
"Honest about what?"
He looked at her — with eyes that looked like they were holding back secrets, storms, and prayers he didn't know how to say.
"About the fact that something about you scares me in a way nothing ever has," he whispered.
Her breath faltered.
"I feel… drawn to you, Buhle. And it makes no sense. None."
She stepped back defensively.
"Ntsika, this is dangerous."
"I know," he said again, almost painfully. "That's why I'm telling you instead of hiding it."
"Why?" she asked, her voice smaller.
"Because you deserve honesty," he whispered. "And because I don't want you thinking you imagined what happened today. You didn't. I felt it too."
Her tears slipped silently.
He took a small step closer.
Not touching her.
Not reaching for her.
Just close enough for her to feel his sincerity.
"I came here to tell you," he said slowly, "that I'm confused. I'm emotionally conflicted. And I don't want to drag you into that."
"Then leave," she whispered.
He closed his eyes, pain flickering across his face. "If I leave… will you hate me?"
"No," she said softly. "But staying will break me."
His eyes opened.
They were glossy.
"Okay," he breathed. "I'll go."
He turned around slowly.
Walked halfway to the street.
Stopped.
And without turning back, he said:
"I don't know what this connection is, Buhle. But I've never felt anything like it. I don't know what God is doing… but I'm scared."
She closed her eyes as tears streamed down her cheeks.
"I'm scared too," she whispered.
He took a deep breath.
Then he walked away.
Not quickly.
Not angrily.
Just slowly — as if each step hurt him.
Buhle stood outside until his car pulled away.
And when he was gone, she finally whispered into the night:
"God… please protect me from what isn't mine."
But her spirit trembled.
Because deep down, she wasn't sure if she wanted too