Across The Hall

No. Just No.

I'm done with hearing this annoying baby noise from the other room. I just want to stay in peace, while staring at my husband's closed eyes, waiting for them to open any seconds, minutes or days. My tears fell down my eyes, not the tears that I'm sad, the tears that I'm happy. I have always been told by my husband that I look pretty when I cry.

He always says it, when he throws his bottle of alcohol at me, when he tells me to make him food, when he does drugs and I tell him to stop, when he forces me to do "UNSPEAKABLE" things. But somehow I'm still connected to him.

My love interest likes putting me through hell. So when he says "You're pretty when you cry" I don't genuinely believe it, but I conclude I must be pretty when I cry because it's like people prefer me when I'm down in the dumps and crying my eyes out.

I'll wait for you, babe, that's all I do, babe.

I always say while I see him sleeping, "Am I the girl that you dream of?"

No, I'm curious. Does he actually think of me when he is just brain-dead? It's frustrating not knowing what he's thinking, especially when I keep overthinking that he only dreams about those hot bikini girls in a poster. I don't look like them, I don't even have a body like them.

His type is mostly a hot white blonde-haired girl with big breasts if you know what I mean. I don't know why he picked me, I'm not even CLOSE to his type. No wonder why he treats me as trash.

This is why those tears were happy tears, I'm glad he is in a coma so I can be free like a bird. But I'm not glad too because then I have no purpose without him. I'm basically nothing without him, I have nothing to do. All I do is disappoint people, just like how I disappointed my parents when they kicked me out. He is all I have, I can't leave him. 

Touches his firm bloody knuckles hands together

The way he is sleeping so peacefully like that, I never had a chance to sleep like that. My life is never peaceful. I wish for that to happen someday, just one peaceful night with comfortable pillows and actually not a broken bed. Well, It's better to sleep on the sofa than on that broken bed, I stay here every day even though the nurses are concerned about me. They probably think that I really love him so much that I will never give up and sleep next to him.

I look down at his hands, his knuckles still crusted with dried blood. The skin is split and raw, a testament to the force with which he punched the wall. I can still hear his angry shouts, still see the flecks of paint that chipped off the wall and scattered onto the floor.

His hands are large, strong, capable of so much destruction. Yet, they can also be gentle, when he chooses. I remember the feel of those hands cupping my face, stroking my hair. But now, as I gaze at the bloody knuckles, all I can think of is the violence they're capable of, the pain they've inflicted.

I got up from the chair and walked over to the sofa where my bag was placed. I took out my favorite CD from the bag and inserted it into the vintage boombox. While the music remains a favorite for me, it's not the same for him anymore. I always keep it with me because it reminds me of the day when he took me out on a date, and we danced to our favorite song playing on the jukebox. He told me, "You sound just like this beautiful song." I wish he would say that to me every day, but it only happened once. That's why it's still my favorite, so I can manifest that it will still happen one day.

The song plays "The distance and the time between us, It'll never change my mind, 'cause baby I would die for you." - Die For You, By The Weeknd

Would he, though? I would die for him if I had to. But no chance in hell he would do the same for me. Still, I take it as a huge compliment when someone says I look like this song. But yes I would die in general for anyone because I want to. I just have no purpose to live without him anyway. I put my head on his chest.

The nurse entered the room, and I was startled, causing me to jump. She apologized, saying, "Sorry, Ms. Alexander, I didn't mean to scare you." I nodded and brushed it off. "It's time for his bath. Do you want to-" I interrupted and said, "Yes, I always do it."

She provided me with some clean water, towels and soap. I carefully positioned Noah on his back, making sure his head was slightly elevated and supported by pillows. As I dipped the washcloth into the warm water, I felt a mix of tenderness and sorrow. I gently washed his face, taking care to be as gentle as possible, then moved to his arms and hands, meticulously cleaning each finger. I see a scar on his arm, the one that makes me scared, the one that I did to him. It was when we were fighting and he tried to force me to do the "UNSPEAKABLE" things, I grabbed my knife and cut his arm.

It doesn't matter. It's over for now, but not when he is awake.

I spoke to him softly, apologizing about it, hoping that on some level he could hear me and actually forgive me. As I continued to clean his chest and back, I was mindful of his medical equipment, ensuring nothing was disturbed. I touched his tattoos slowly on his chest with my fingers, It's huge tattoos. The words "Truth Is In God" were inked in bold, elaborate script, stretching from shoulder to shoulder. Each letter was meticulously crafted, the dark ink standing out starkly against his skin. As my fingers traced the curves and lines, I felt a strange mix of reverence and curiosity.

My fingers traced down to his abs. He doesn't work out in the gym, he just fights a lot for money. So we can survive.

I guess he is a believer but He did multiple sins that God is already disappointed in him. But yes the truth is in God, I will always seek it, and I will always pray to god that somehow I will get out of this hell hole.

After washing his hairy legs and feet, I saw a bite mark on his left leg, I always looked at it. It's when I was on the floor and I bit his leg because I was suffering. I dried his skin with a soft towel and applied lotion to keep his skin from becoming dry. Finally, I dressed him in a clean gown, feeling a small sense of comfort in being able to care for him in this intimate way.

I hoped that somehow, deep within his unconscious state, he knew I was here, caring for him, waiting for him. He knew that I would be here for him, everywhere he went. He knew that I would be useless without him and stay glued.

I gently tucked the sheets around him, ensuring he was comfortable. I sat back down beside his bed, holding his hand once more. The steady beeping of the monitors and the hum of the machines filled the room, a constant reminder of the fragile thread that connected him to life. I squeezed his hand gently, leaning in to whisper, "I'll wait for you, Asshole."

While waiting, I should do something. I can't just wait every day for him. I should look for jobs so I can get money and eat something good instead of eating from the hospital cafeteria. That way, I would have a purpose to do something.

The door is open, and I'm sitting in a chair next to my husband. I see a man looking at me from 100 feet away in another room with the door also open. He looks scary. We are still staring at each other as if it's a staring game. I held my arms together as he continued to give me chills. But I also see someone on the bed, next to him. I assume someone he knows is also in a coma. He probably understands me.

Should I go to him? I don't know but he is still looking at me. I really want to break the staring contest. But I do not want to, his face is beautiful. Who needs drugs when I can just look at his eyes? They make me dizzy somehow. I shouldn't be thinking like this, I got a husband.

A husband who will do the "UNSPEAKABLE" things to me if I ever look at a man like that with love. All of a sudden, a nurse entered their room. Thank god it's over, neither of us broke it, so it won't create any animosity.

His eyes, a stormy blue, locked onto mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. It was a look that was both terrifying and thrilling, a look that made me feel seen, truly seen, for the first time. His gaze was like a physical touch, tracing the lines of my face, lingering on my lips, my neck, my collarbone. It was hungry, possessive, as if he wanted to devour me whole. His pupils were dilated, swallowing up the blue of his irises, turning his eyes into dark pools that I felt like I could drown in. It was scary, yes, but also exhilarating. It was the look I'd always craved, the look that made me feel desired, wanted. His stare was like a spotlight, illuminating me, making me the center of his world. It was a look that promised passion, danger, a wildfire that could consume me entirely. And I wanted it, wanted him, wanted to be consumed.

God, stop it. My husband is literally next to me and I'm thinking like this. I sighed, I need a coffee. So I can stay up and stare at my husband like the way it's not with that stranger I stared at. I got up from my chair and went to the kitchen as the coffee machine was in there. I grabbed a mug for myself and filled it with freshly brewed coffee, the rich aroma filling the small space. The warmth of the mug in my hands was comforting.

"Tired?" I heard a man's voice. It was deep and resonant, pulling me from my thoughts. I turned my head around and saw him in front of the door, his tall frame leaning casually against the wooden frame. He wasn't wearing a hat, allowing his short, neatly cut hair to be fully visible.

His muscular arm was propped against the door, his fingers hooked into his jeans pocket in a relaxed manner. The tight black t-shirt he wore highlighted his broad shoulders and strong chest, hinting at a life of hard work. His jeans, worn and slightly faded, completed the rugged look.

The same man who looked at me like nobody did. His presence was commanding, yet there was a softness in his expression that intrigued me. "It's been a long day," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady despite the sudden flutter in my chest.

He nodded, his gaze never leaving mine. "I can imagine," he said, pushing off from the door and taking a few steps closer. "Can you pour some of that for me?"

I watched him approach, feeling a mix of curiosity and wariness. "Yeah, sure," As I fill another mug with coffee for him. I want to ask him why he stared at me across the hall. But I don't know. He looks tired too. Fuck it, I just do it. I hand the mug to him while we both sit down. "So... Why did u stare at me?"

He took a sip of the coffee, his eyes never leaving mine. He seemed to consider his answer carefully. "Honestly?" he said finally, setting the mug down on the small table between us. "You just looked... familiar. Like someone I should know."

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Familiar? How so?" I'm really curious where this is going.

He shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "You look like someone that I would fuck someday."

..? That was unexpected, but wow. I'm not complaining, because I would fuck him too, just that we are in the hospital with our partners who are in a coma, which is kinda weird for him to say that. I have no words to say to him but he added to the conversation. "Relax, I'm joking. But yeah you do look like someone I have seen before."

Oh thank god, but I actually wish he never said the joke part because I want it to happen someday too. His eyes are addictive, I'm addicted to staring at them right now. I giggled at him for that comment. "Oh! Well that's good to know"

He takes another sip of the coffee, his eyes widening slightly in appreciation. "But this is good coffee," he murmurs, the low timbre of his voice sending a subtle vibration through me. He looks at me, his gaze intense and curious. "I want more of it."

I chuckle, feeling a warmth spread through me that has nothing to do with the coffee. "It's nothing, really. I just put some effort into it," I say, my eyes meeting his, a playful spark in mine. He's a hot, sexy man, and I can't help but feel a thrill at his compliment.

"No, seriously," he insists, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. The muscles in his forearms flex slightly, and I find myself momentarily distracted by the sight. "I never tasted something like this. I manage a café, and I need to know how you make this coffee or else."

He manages a café? That's hot. I could use a job, maybe I should work for him. But for now, I'm enjoying this banter too much to let it go. "Or else what?" I ask, a teasing lilt to my voice.

His eyes darken, and for a moment, I think he's serious. "Or I'm gonna force you to do it," he says, but there's a playful smirk on his lips.

My heart skips a beat, and not in a good way. I have been forced so many times. I was forced to do the "UNSPEAKABLE" things, I was forced to do everything for Noah. My smile fades, and I respond quickly, my voice steady despite the sudden turmoil inside me. "I'll do it, just don't force me, please."

He notices the change in my demeanor immediately. His smirk fades, replaced by concern. "Hey, are you okay?" he asks, his voice softening. "I didn't mean to actually force you. You don't have to do it if you don't want to." His eyes search mine, and I see genuine worry in them. It's a look I'm not used to, a look that makes me want to trust him. But trust is a luxury I can't afford, not yet.

"It's nothing." I turned my head away. I shouldn't tell him what was going on. I just met him, "I can show you how to make it." I said with a fake smile.

"But first, tell me your name," I say, trying to shift the focus away from my sudden vulnerability. I take another sip of my coffee, the familiar warmth grounding me.

He leans back in his chair, his gaze still locked on me, but there's a new gentleness in his eyes. "I'm Mateo," he says, extending his hand across the table. "And you are?"

"Hazel," I reply, shaking his hand. His grip is firm yet comforting, and for a moment, I allow myself to relax a little.

"Nice to meet you, Hazel," he says, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Now, about that coffee. You really have to show me how you make it. Maybe we can trade secrets—I'll show you some tricks from the café, and you can show me your magic."

I can't help but laugh softly at his enthusiasm. "Alright, Mateo. You've got yourself a deal. But be warned, my methods are a bit unorthodox."

He chuckles, and the sound is rich and warm, like a good cup of coffee. "I think I can handle that," he says with a wink. That wink was the hottest thing he ever did.

We spend the next hour in this kitchen, me guiding him through my process. As I explain my techniques, I find myself relaxing more and more. Mateo is attentive, asking questions and making notes, his focus entirely on the coffee and on me. It's a refreshing change from the usual, and I start to enjoy his company.

"So, you really run a café?" I ask as he grinds the coffee beans with a surprising amount of skill. Maybe I should work there.

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "It's a small place, but it's mine. I took over from my dad a few years ago. It's been tough, but I love it. Coffee is kind of my passion."

I smile at that. "I can tell. You're pretty good at this." The way he is speaking to me with those sexy red lips, I want to kiss them. That sexy blonde hair, I want to touch them. It's probably soft.

"Thanks," he says, glancing up at me with a grin. "But I think you might have a few tricks up your sleeve that could put me to shame." Just like how I'm gonna trick you into kissing me and having sex with me in the janitor's room. What about his wife though? Should I care or not? He is obviously in love with his wife...

We finish making the coffee, and as we sit back down at the table, Mateo takes a sip. His eyes light up again, and he lets out a low whistle. "Hazel, this is amazing. Seriously, you should be working in a café, not just making coffee at home."

I shrug, trying to brush off the compliment. "It's just a hobby."

"Well, it's a damn good one," he says, his eyes locking onto mine. "Listen, if you're ever looking for a job, I could really use someone with your talent. Think about it, okay?" I most definitely will.

I look at him, surprised by the offer. It's tempting, but I know I need to be careful. "I'll think about it," I say finally, my voice steady.

"Good," he says, finishing his coffee. "And Hazel, thanks for showing me this. It means a lot."

"You're welcome, Mateo," I say, feeling a genuine smile spread across my face for the first time in a while. "And thank you for... well, for being understanding."

He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand gently. "Anytime, Hazel. Anytime."

A comfortable silence settles between us, punctuated only by the occasional sound of the coffee machine or the clink of our cups. I find myself appreciating Alex's presence more than I expected. It's not often I feel at ease with someone I've just met.

"Tell me more about your café," I say, genuinely curious. "What's it like?"

Mateo's face lights up at the question. "It's called 'The Brew House.' It's a cozy little spot with a lot of character. We've got a loyal group of regulars, and we try to create a welcoming atmosphere. We also do a lot of community events—open mic nights, book clubs, stuff like that."

"That sounds wonderful," I say, picturing the scene. "I can see why you love it." Meanwhile, I'm also picturing the scene of us fucking in the bathroom of the café.

"Yeah, it's a lot of work, but it's worth it," he says, his voice filled with pride. "And it would be even better with someone like you on the team."

I feel a warmth in my chest at his words, but I push it aside. "I'll definitely think about it," I say, not ready to make any decisions just yet.

Mateo nods, respecting my need for space. "No pressure. Just know the offer's open."

He stares at me again, sending a shiver down my spine. He keeps looking at me like something is wrong with my face. I gulped, looking at his eyes too. I think he is only looking at my eyes not the other features of my face. Now he is reaching, to get a better look. I don't know but he is getting so close, finally he broke the silence.

"Hey, your eyes have a little green in them, It's like your name Hazel."

Mateo's observation catches me off guard, and I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks. His gaze is intense, yet there's a softness to it that makes me feel seen in a way I haven't felt in a long time. Especially from a stranger. I was feeling shy so I smiled out of nowhere.

"Really?" I ask, my voice coming out quieter than I intended. "Most people just say they're brown."

He shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "No, they're definitely hazel. It's beautiful."

The compliment sends a warmth through me, and I find myself smiling back at him. "Thanks, Mateo. You're very observant."

He shrugs, still smiling. "I just call it like I see it."

"My mom named me Hazel because of my eyes," I say, feeling a pang of nostalgia. "She always said they reminded her of the colors of autumn leaves."

Mateo's smile softens. "That's a beautiful reason. Your mom sounds like she had a great eye for detail."

"She did," I reply, my voice tinged with sadness. She is an ophthalmologist, and she always has been obsessed with eyes. I hate her, she always defends my stepdad when I'm in the right. She never defended me my whole life, even when she told me to apologize to a girl who punched me off the stairs, a guy who I rejected in high school, even...when she made me apologize to my stepdad when he flirted with me. She was never there for me but when I was there for her, she push me off.

We finish our coffee, and as he stands to leave, he gives me one last smile. "Thanks again for today, Hazel. I hope we can do this again sometime."

"Me too," I say, surprising myself with the sincerity in my voice. "Take care, Mateo."

As the door closes behind him, I find myself replaying our conversation in my mind. Mateo is different—kind, genuine, and understanding. Maybe working at The Brew House wouldn't be such a bad idea. For now, though, I need time to think, to sort through my feelings and decide what I really want.