For the first time since my days in the orphanage, I woke up to find my hand wasn't alone.
There was a warmth surrounding it, a warmth whose source I couldn't pinpoint… Had I clung to it in my sleep, or had it held me as if afraid I'd get lost?
I didn't open my eyes immediately, as if I was afraid that the feeling would vanish if I confirmed it.
But the warmth was real, constant, pulsating with a quiet tranquility I hadn't known in a long time.
Even after I slapped him… yes, I did it without thinking, as I usually do when I'm flustered, I didn't let go of his hand.
My fingers remained intertwined with his, as if a part of me was silently apologizing, or perhaps begging him not to leave me.
We were talking… or trying to.
The words faltered, coming out incomplete, confused, but our hands spoke more truthfully than any conversation.
Every time I tightened my grip slightly, he responded calmly, without asking questions, without pulling away.
So, the cleaning lady took my clothes and changed them, I asked her.
"Yes, I just carried you to bed," he told me.
"Then why were you holding my hand and wouldn't let go?" I asked shyly.
"You were the one who held it, and I was the one who wanted to stay after I held it."
"Okay... didn't that happen...?"
"No... we started dating yesterday, and I want to do everything right and well."
"Thank you for your honesty," I told him.
"Are you hungry? I'll get some food."
I looked around and saw the room was quite large, so I asked, "Where am I?"
"I rented a room since you didn't tell me where you live."
"Oh, and is there anything...?" Michael's phone suddenly rang.
He took it out of his pocket and politely asked if he could let go of my hand to answer the call.
His face flushed, and I said, "Yes, go ahead, but would you mind asking me to get some clothes to wear?"
He pointed to a small closet in the room and told me to wear anything from there.
He left me in my confusion. I got out of bed and looked in the mirror. I was wearing pink pajamas, like a princess who had woken up in pink pajamas in a big, beautiful room with a prince holding her hand.
For someone who had just vomited, I didn't look bad at all.
I opened the closet, and inside were bags full of dresses.
I felt confused. How could I possibly wear something that expensive?
I felt lost for a few minutes, straightening myself up while looking in the mirror. Then I went out to talk to Michael, still in my pajamas.
When I opened the door, I heard him say he was going to stop by the company.
"Michael," I said slowly.
He looked at me and said, "Mmm... Do you like anything from the cupboard? Should I buy you something else?
No, it's not like that. Everything in that cupboard is expensive, and I don't think I can afford it.
Don't worry, choose anything from them, and I'll order some soup. What do you think?
Good. I'd like chicken broth soup. Is that possible?
He smiled and said, "Of course. And please wear anything from the cupboard."
How long do you think the order will be ready?
Half an hour.
Can I take a shower?
Go ahead. I'll wait in the hall for the soup.
I thanked him, feeling embarrassed.
After he left, I took a shower and put on a very beautiful dress. I don't think I've ever worn anything like it in my life, but I wanted to make up for how I looked yesterday.
There was a knock at the door, and Michael asked permission to come in.
I opened the door, and he entered hesitantly, carrying the bowl of soup in his hands, its heat rising in a thin steam that filled the space between us. He closed the door behind him without looking away, but when our eyes met… he froze for a moment, as if time itself had caught in his chest.
He almost dropped what he was holding, quickly regaining his balance. He set the soup aside with exaggerated care, as if trying to postpone something bigger, something he couldn't bear as easily as he held this bowl.
He took a step closer, then another. His gaze wasn't ordinary… it wasn't the look I was used to, not fleeting admiration or temporary curiosity, but something deeper, something that made me feel completely exposed before him.
He looked at me as if trying to say something. His lips moved slightly before he stopped, then said in a low, hesitant voice,
"May I…"
He didn't finish.
I just looked at him, without answering, without turning away, without allowing myself to fully understand what was happening. And perhaps that was my answer.
In a brief moment, the hesitation vanished from his face, as if he had finally made his decision. Then he moved closer… closer than he should have, closer than reason allowed.
And I felt it before I understood what was happening—his lips touched mine, gently, in a way I hadn't expected from him. It was as if the kiss wasn't a rush, but another question… but this time, without words.
My breath caught for a moment, not because I was shocked, but because I hadn't resisted.
And that frightened me more than anything.