I WAS JUST A SERVANT

Zenande's breathing was shaky, her hands tight around the wooden railing in the rehab room.

"Breathe in," Nokwanda whispered. "You're not alone."

The room was silent except for the subtle creak of the wood beneath Zenande's weight. Sweat shimmered at her temple. Her legs, numb for months, now trembled as sensation fought its way back.

One foot moved forward.

A small, trembling step.

Zenande gasped.

"I did it," she whispered.

Nokwanda, crouched beside her, nodded with tears forming. "You did."

Zenande looked down, disbelief on her face. Her body was still weak, her movements unsteady, but she was standing — with help, yes — but still, she was standing.

A wave of emotion hit her so hard, her knees almost buckled.

"I never thought I'd do this again," she choked out.

"You've worked for it," Nokwanda said, rising slowly. "No miracles. Just you."

Zenande turned to her.

Their faces were close.

Too close.

"I wasn't talking about the walking," she whispered.

Their eyes locked — months of silence, longing, and slow-burning fire reaching a boiling point. Nokwanda's breath caught in her throat. Her lips parted like she might speak, but nothing came out.

Zenande's hand moved before she could stop herself.

She touched Nokwanda's face — fingers brushing her cheekbone, trembling as if unsure of their right to be there.

"I don't know what's happening to me," Zenande confessed. "But I don't want it to stop."

Nokwanda leaned into the touch.

They stood like that — the rich girl once locked in her pride, and the woman society had tried to shrink — locked in something too tender for words.

Zenande's thumb stroked Nokwanda's cheek once, then gently pulled back.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just needed…"

"...To feel seen?" Nokwanda finished for her.

Zenande nodded.

Back upstairs, the silence was heavier than ever — but not painful.

It was full of something unspoken, something that curled around their bodies like invisible silk.

That night, Nokwanda helped Zenande into bed — slower, more careful, more aware than usual.

When she tucked the blanket under her legs, Zenande reached out again.

"Don't go," she said softly.

Nokwanda sat on the edge of the bed.

Zenande's eyes traced the shape of her shoulders, her lips, her quiet strength.

"Did you ever imagine this?" she whispered. "You, me… this room… this feeling?"

Nokwanda hesitated.

"I imagined taking care of someone who needed me," she said. "But not like this. Not… you."

Zenande closed her eyes. "I was so angry when you walked in that first day. I wanted to scream at you to leave."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because something in me said, She's the one who'll stay."

Nokwanda exhaled deeply, emotion thick in her chest.

"You scare me, Zenande."

Zenande opened her eyes. "Why?"

"Because I never wanted to love someone who might one day walk again… and walk away."

Zenande reached for her hand and held it.

"I'm not walking away," she said. "Not from you."

But not far from the house, under the shadow of the front gate, someone was watching.

A figure in a dark coat. A woman.

Her eyes were fixed on the lit window upstairs.

On the silhouettes behind the curtain.

She pulled out her phone, dialed a number.

"She's still with her," the voice whispered. "And it's getting worse."

The person on the other end asked something inaudible.

The woman answered coldly.

"She's falling in love with that servant. Just like we feared."

Then she hung up — and disappeared into the night.