I WAS JUST A SERVANT

The rain came softly that morning, brushing against the windows like a forgotten song. Nokwanda stood in the hallway, listening to it as she waited for Zenande to finish brushing her teeth. The silence between them had grown thicker these past days — not angry, but layered, like a blanket they both pretended wasn't there.

Zenande had said little during breakfast. She didn't look at Nokwanda when she handed her the tea. But her fingers brushed Nokwanda's, just for a second. She flinched. Nokwanda didn't.

They were both pretending.

Pretending not to feel what was bubbling underneath everything.

Zenande, especially.

Because what she felt — what had been creeping into her chest like slow fire — was unacceptable.

She had never desired a woman. Never looked at another woman's mouth and wondered what it would taste like. Never watched someone's hips move and thought God, I want to know what it feels like to touch her there.

But she was now.

And she hated it.

"Miss Zenande," Nokwanda said as she pushed the wheelchair toward the living room, "your physiotherapy session is at 2 today."

"I don't feel like it."

"I'll be there with you the whole time."

Zenande's jaw tightened. "You think your presence fixes things?"

Nokwanda didn't react. "No. But you're improving. Slowly."

Zenande looked away.

That was the problem.

Nokwanda was helping. Her stretches were getting easier. Her muscles were strengthening. Some feeling was returning to her feet.

Which only made the ache in her heart sharper.

If she walked again… then what?

Would Nokwanda still stay?

Would this dangerous warmth between them disappear?

She wanted her body back — but not if it meant losing the only person who'd stayed.

That afternoon, Zenande tested her.

It started small.

She spilled her tea deliberately, then watched how Nokwanda reacted.

Nokwanda didn't flinch. She simply knelt, wiped the stain, and said, "It's okay. I'll make another."

Then Zenande asked for her bath water to be emptied halfway through — twice — forcing Nokwanda to refill it.

Still, Nokwanda didn't complain.

Then, finally, as Nokwanda helped her from the tub, Zenande gripped her shoulder tighter than necessary and said coldly, "You're just here because you're paid."

Nokwanda paused, towel in hand.

"No," she said, quiet but firm. "I'm here because you needed someone. And because I chose to stay."

Zenande turned her face away.

Because if she didn't, she might've cried.

Later that evening, Nokwanda found Zenande staring blankly at her reflection in the mirror. The light from her vanity glowed soft against her skin. She looked beautiful — and deeply, painfully sad.

Nokwanda walked in silently with a brush.

"May I?" she asked.

Zenande didn't answer.

But she didn't say no.

Nokwanda stood behind her and gently brushed her hair — long, dark, smooth. Each stroke slow, deliberate.

Zenande closed her eyes.

She hated how good it felt.

How tender.

How real.

"How long will you stay?" Zenande asked suddenly.

Nokwanda paused. "As long as I'm needed."

Zenande opened her eyes again, meeting Nokwanda's reflection in the mirror.

"And what if I asked you to leave?"

Nokwanda looked straight at her. "Then I'd ask… are you pushing me away because you don't need me, or because you're scared I might stay?"

Silence.

Zenande said nothing.

But her hands trembled on her lap.

That night, she dreamed of Nokwanda.

Not a romantic dream. Not sexual.

Just… Nokwanda brushing her hair, helping her into bed, whispering: "I see you. Even when you try to hide."

Zenande woke up crying.

And hated herself for it.

The next day, she avoided her completely.

Told her mother she wasn't feeling well.

Refused breakfast. Refused her stretch session. Refused eye contact.

Nokwanda, confused but respectful, left a warm bowl of oats on her side table and closed the door without pressing her.

Zenande stared at it for an hour before picking up the spoon.

It tasted like comfort.

And it made her feel worse.

That evening, Mrs. Mthembu cornered Nokwanda in the hallway.

"You've been here longer than any other girl."

"I'm trying."

"She hasn't been yelling lately. That's progress."

"I think she's hurting more now," Nokwanda said. "Not less."

Mrs. Mthembu sighed. "She pushes people away when she feels seen. Her father was like that."

Nokwanda looked down. "She's… different. Stronger than she knows."

"She watches you, you know."

Nokwanda's heart fluttered. "What?"

"When you're not looking. When you water the plants. When you hum. She pretends not to care… but I've seen it. You're not just anyone to her."

Nokwanda's breath caught.

But she said nothing.

She didn't know how to answer that.

That night, Zenande wrote in her notebook again.

I hate her smile. It's soft and calm and makes me want to fall into it.

I hate how she never flinches, no matter what I do.

I hate how much I want her to hold me — just once.

I hate that she's the only one I've dreamed about since I lost my legs.

She tore the page out.

But didn't throw it away.

She hid it under her pillow.

Because part of her wanted Nokwanda to find it.