She started by apologizing. Tears and apologies poured out of her before I could ask a single question. She begged for forgiveness, getting up from the bed and falling to her knees. She scrambled across the floor, clutching at my feet, unwilling to leave until I pardoned her. Her pleading drew eyes from around the ward; people glanced over, curiosity written across their faces.
I sat frozen. She left me very little choice. I had forgiven her in my head, but the wound still ached. If her explanation could fix that, then let her speak.
I sat down. She sat on her bed. She took a handkerchief under her pillow and wiped her tears. She was still sobbing quietly. I sat there helplessly looking at her. I thought I should do something to stop her from crying. I got up from my seat, and hugged her. She wrapped her arms around me. It was so tight that I could feel her breasts thrusting into my heart. I wished she would never let me go but the nurse entered the ward with a doctor. The doctor was going round to check on his patients.
The nurse and doctor came in then, doing their rounds. “Looks like you two are having a good time here,” the doctor joked with a short, awkward laugh. I felt a flush of shame that we’d been caught, but also a strange, quiet happiness: I’d finally held the girl I’d been chasing for so long.
When the doctor finished his checks, he told me I was fit to go and would likely be discharged by evening. I felt a sharp regret at the news; I wanted to stay a little longer beside Lucy. Maybe then she would tell me everything.
Just as the nurse and doctor left, Lucy’s mother returned with a big bowl of light soup and rice. She was kind and careful, and she shared some with me. I ate, but every bite tasted a little like goodbye.
After I finished, my mother told me I was being discharged and we had to go. I wanted to stay. I wanted another chance to speak with Lucy alone, to hear her truth and—stupidly—to be close to her again. But my mother was waiting and the ward was not mine to keep. I hugged Lucy one last time and wished her a speedy recovery.
“I’ll visit you tomorrow morning,” I said.
She answered with a wry, tired smile. “So you want me to stay here so you can have school all to yourself? Is that what it is?”
“No—no,” I said quickly. “I want you well. Come back to school and study. Don’t let this mess ruin you.”
Her mother glanced at me, clearly about to ask who JK was, but I could feel time slipping. My mother waited outside; I didn’t want to prolong things. I left.
We stood by the roadside under a merciless sun waiting for a taxi. I found a shady spot under a mango tree. While I waited, a familiar figure walked toward us, forehead prominent and gait slow.
It was JK.
Heat rose in me. I wanted answers. I wanted blood. I pictured confronting him, making him pay for the lies and for what he’d done to my name. By the time he reached me I had clenched my fists and rehearsed the words I would say.
He walked up, smiling, as if the world owed him good manners. Not a trace of shame. Not a hint of apology. That made my blood boil. I lunged. The fist I managed to throw connected, and JK went down hard on his backside.
For a moment I thought I would strike again. Then a hand gripped my arm from behind. I spun and saw Lucy. She was there, eyes wide, holding me back.
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