The morning light spilled softly through the thick curtains, casting golden shadows across Zenande's room. The silence was heavy, yet warm. Sheets tangled. Clothes scattered. Breath still shared.
Zenande lay on her side, watching Nokwanda's bare back rise and fall with slow, steady breaths. She hadn't moved since the early hours when passion overcame them both. Her hand trembled slightly as she traced invisible patterns on Nokwanda's skin, her mind spinning.
What have I done?
Yet even as guilt tried to rise, something deeper anchored her — a strange, unshakable calm. For the first time in years, Zenande felt something close to peace. Not the kind money buys or medication forces — but peace born of truth. Of being seen. Of being touched not out of obligation, but care.
Nokwanda stirred, turning slowly to face her. Her eyes, still half-closed from sleep, found Zenande's. A small, uncertain smile curled on her lips.
"Hey…" Nokwanda's voice was husky, raw, beautiful.
Zenande swallowed hard. "Hi."
Silence followed — not awkward, but loud. Filled with questions neither of them knew how to ask. Or answer.
Last night had broken a wall neither of them could rebuild.
"You regret it?" Nokwanda asked softly.
Zenande shook her head too quickly. "No. I just…" She closed her eyes. "I've never… with a woman. I've never felt this."
Nokwanda reached up, brushing a strand of Zenande's hair back gently. "Me neither. But I'm not afraid of it."
"I am," Zenande confessed, her voice a cracked whisper. "I'm afraid of you. Of this. Of how much I need it."
Nokwanda leaned in, placing a slow, deliberate kiss on her forehead. "Then we'll go slow. I'm not going anywhere, Zenande."
Later that morning, as Nokwanda helped Zenande dress and prepare for the day, Zenande's mother knocked at the door — uncharacteristically polite. She stepped in, her eyes scanning the room with practiced sharpness, but no sign of suspicion yet.
"I hope you're doing better today," her mother said, standing at the window.
Zenande cleared her throat, keeping her voice steady. "Yes. Better."
Nokwanda gave a respectful nod and stepped back, her body alert. She could feel Zenande tense beside her.
"I'm glad," her mother continued. "I have business later, and I'll be gone for the day. Nokwanda, please see to lunch and ensure she takes her medication."
"Yes, Ma'am," Nokwanda answered with quiet grace.
As soon as the door closed, Zenande turned and gripped Nokwanda's hand tightly. "We have to be careful."
"I know," Nokwanda whispered, squeezing back.
[Part 3 – Confessions Beneath the Rain]
That afternoon, a thunderstorm rolled in — wild, chaotic, beautiful. Nokwanda pushed Zenande outside onto the covered veranda to enjoy it.
"I hate rain," Zenande muttered. "It reminds me of the accident."
"I love it," Nokwanda said. "It washes things clean. Like… a reset."
They sat side by side. Silence again. Then Zenande spoke.
"I used to believe in love," she whispered. "I married young. Thought I had found forever. But after the accident… he left. Everyone left. I became this… shadow of myself. Bitter. Angry. Cold."
Nokwanda said nothing. She just waited.
Zenande turned to her. "But you… you stayed. You looked at me and didn't flinch. You talk back to me. You make me feel… human again."
Nokwanda reached out and took Zenande's face in her hands. "That's because you are human. Broken, angry, spoiled — maybe. But human. And I love every complicated part of you."
Zenande's lips trembled. "I've been fighting it. These feelings. They scare me."
"Then don't fight anymore," Nokwanda said softly. "Just feel."
Zenande leaned in, and this time it was her who kissed Nokwanda — a kiss slow and intentional. And in it was all the fear, longing, and surrender she had buried deep.