What I'm about to write… isn't all mine.
Some of it Michael told me later, in his quiet voice that concealed more than it revealed…
And some of it is scattered fragments of my memory, like shards of broken glass, reflecting blurry, meaningless images.
After Michael confessed his feelings…
I don't remember breathing normally afterward.
My face flushed uncontrollably, as if the blood had decided to flee my heart and flood my features. I wasn't myself anymore… I wasn't the person who thought before she spoke, who chose her words carefully.
I was floundering.
I was talking aimlessly… without direction… without logic.
I complained about the patients, the work pressure, the endless days.
I complained about the landlady… her voice… her looks… her very presence.
Then, without realizing it, I started complaining about women…
The way they looked at him.
I was jealous.
Rudely.
Clearly.
And shamelessly… because I simply… wasn't aware of what I was doing.
He was listening.
That's what he told me later.
He said he didn't interrupt me, didn't try to stop me, just… looked at me, as if I was saying something important, even though everything that came out of my mouth was a jumble.
And when he sensed I'd reached that point… the point where words become mere sounds,
he asked for the bill.
He paid.
Then he turned to me and asked calmly,
"Where do you live?"
A simple question.
My answer… wasn't simple.
I told him I lived on the street.
That I was homeless.
That I had a cruel stepmother who had thrown me out…
And that my father didn't love me.
In fact… he never had.
When he told me this later… I couldn't believe it.
I laughed at first.
Then I stopped… when I saw he wasn't joking.
He said I was looking at him as I said it… as if it were the absolute truth.
I think… he thought I was lying.
Or maybe… he didn't know what to believe.
He tried to get any useful information out of me… an address, a neighborhood name, anything…
But I was… lost in my own world.
So… he made his decision.
He said he had no other choice.
He picked me up.
I don't remember that moment… but the thought of me being in his arms… in a way I can't quite put my finger on… still makes my heart race.
He put me in the car…
And drove off.
I don't know where.
Or how.
Surprisingly… he stopped at a clothing store.
He bought me clothes.
Even now… I don't understand how he managed to choose my size so precisely.
When I asked him… he dodged the question with a faint smile and said,
"It wasn't difficult."
Liar.
Then he took me to a nearby hotel.
He rented a suite.
Not a regular room… a suite.
And that… is what confused me the most when I found out.
He said he brought a hotel maid…
And asked her to clean me.
The thought that a stranger took care of me in that state…
still makes me feel embarrassed.
But the strange thing… he didn't come near me.
He didn't try.
He didn't take advantage.
He didn't… do anything.
After the maid finished, he carried me again, put me on the bed… and left a note.
"Call me when you wake up."
Simple.
Direct.
As if what happened… was perfectly normal.
But… what wasn't in the plan…
was what happened next.
When I woke up…
I was slow to process reality.
The ceiling was different.
The smell was different.
The silence… was strange.
Then I felt something.
A hand.
It held mine.
I turned slowly…
And it was him.
Asleep… beside me.
Completely silent… as if he had never left.
I didn't scream.
I didn't panic.
And that… surprised me more than anything.
I was calm.
Unreasonably… I felt reassured.
As if his presence… was the only right thing to do at that moment.
I knew… without proof…
that Michael wouldn't hurt me.
Then… the thought came.
Ridiculous.
Surprising.
And strangely painful.
"Does… he not find me attractive?"
Yes.
That was the first thing that crossed my mind.
Not gratitude.
Not relief.
But… doubt.
I slowly pulled back the covers…
And saw that I was only wearing pajamas.
I froze for a second.
Then…
I slapped him.
Hard.
He woke up startled, looked around as if some catastrophe had occurred, then fixed his gaze on me and said,
"What happened?!"
I looked at him angrily… or maybe embarrassed… or something in between, and asked him directly,
"Where are my clothes?!"
He blinked for a few seconds, then said simply, "The cleaning lady took it… it was dirty. You threw up on it."
…
He fell silent.
I fell silent too.
And between us… something was changing.
Something that wasn't just his confession… but that night I don't remember… but he lived it fully… and chose… to be someone I could trust.
And perhaps… for that very reason… I couldn't see him again… as just an ordinary person.
He suddenly became the dearest thing I had.