The following morning, a bouquet of soft pink roses, Nyasha's favorite by coincidence, lay at the edge of her hospital bed beside a neatly folded handwritten note. The ink was thick, as if the writer had pressed too hard out of frustration. It simply read:
"I'm sorry. For everything. — TK"
She stared at it for a moment before slowly pushing it off her tray without a word. The flowers tumbled gently to the floor.
From behind the privacy curtain, TK had been watching—trying not to. When the petals hit the tiles, a sharp sting pierced his chest. But he didn't blame her.
Later that morning, he tried again. He sent in breakfast from a nearby café instead of hospital food—her favorite combo of sweet tea and chicken liver toast. Nyasha asked the nurse to take it away without touching it.
He tried walking over, cautiously, like approaching a wild animal, the pain in his body threatening to knock him unconscious. "Nyasha..." he started, saying her name with familiarity. His voice was low, unsure. She didn't even look at him. Not once. Her face was set in stone, eyes glued to the wall.
"I didn't mean for it to happen," he added, "I—"
She reached for the headphones that lay next to her on the bed and placed them on without a word. That was answer enough.
Back in his bed, TK ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. This wasn't about pride anymore. He felt something stir, something real. Empathy.
But she wasn't ready—and maybe, he thought, he didn't deserve her forgiveness.
Still, he wasn't giving up. Not yet.
***
The next day, TK tried again.
This time, he had arranged for a soft delivery—an older nurse rolled in a cart decorated with a small potted aloe plant, its green leaves tied with a ribbon. Attached to it was a sticky note with a simple message:
"For healing. Even if you still hate me.—TK"
The nurse gently placed it on Nyasha's side table while she lay facing away, pretending to sleep. But her eyes blinked open the moment the nurse left.
She stared at the plant. It was thoughtful, subtle. It annoyed her more.
Minutes later, Takudzwa appeared in the doorway of her curtained space, walking slowly with his IV pole. His face was unreadable, but his voice was careful.
"I know you said a lot yesterday. And you meant it," he said, his eyes scanning her bruised face. "But I'm still sorry. For the accident, for the timing, for… everything."
Nyasha didn't respond. She didn't look at him either.
He stepped a little closer. "I don't expect anything. Just... I wanted you to know I'm trying."
She finally turned, her voice low but sharp: "Trying doesn't fix my father. Trying won't undo what happened."
"I know," he said quietly.
"Then leave me alone." Her voice cracked, but she didn't blink. TK stared for a moment, nodded once, and turned back toward his bed.
She didn't cry this time. But when the nurse returned to remove the plant, Nyasha surprised her by saying, "Leave it."
***
On the third day, Takudzwa decided to try something simple—but heartfelt. The hospital ward was colder than usual that morning, and he'd noticed the way Nyasha curled into herself, her hospital blanket thin and barely clinging to warmth.
He called his assistant and had a soft, handmade fleece blanket delivered—emerald green, with subtle embroidered vines curling along the edges. It looked expensive but not flashy. The kind of comfort one gave to someone who needed warmth more than luxury. Alongside it, a flask of herbal tea—calming, natural, the kind she might have brewed for herself if she weren't lying in a hospital bed.
He walked in just after noon, greeted only by the steady beep of monitors and her stony silence. She didn't even look at him.
"I noticed the cold," he said, placing the blanket neatly on her bed's edge. "And I thought—never mind."
He paused, hesitating, then added, "I also brought some tea. You might like it."
Still nothing. No eye contact. No word.
She reached for the hospital bell without looking. When the nurse came in, Nyasha said, "Could you please take that tea away? I didn't order anything."
The nurse hesitated, glanced at TK, then obeyed.
As for the blanket, Nyasha didn't touch it. Not that day. Not even when the night got colder. It lay folded at the foot of her bed—a symbol of guilt, of a gesture gone unnoticed. And when he walked away that time, TK didn't say anything.
He just looked back once. And that silence hurt more than any insult.
***
Takudzwa knew words weren't his strongest suit—not the heartfelt kind, anyway. So, he tried using someone else's.
That morning, before visiting hours began, he sent someone by a quiet bookstore in the CBD for a well-worn copy of "When Breath Becomes Air" by Paul Kalanithi. Something about a doctor's fight, the reflection on life and loss, felt close to what Nyasha might connect with. It wasn't romantic, just human. Honest.
Inside the book, he slipped in a handwritten note on plain paper. No branding. No signature. Just his handwriting:
"I'm sorry. Not just for the accident, but for shaking your life when I had no right to. I won't pretend to understand your pain, but if this book eases a single hour of it, then I'll have done something right for once.
— TK"
When he arrived at the ward, she was sitting up, stiff but alert. He didn't speak. He just placed the book gently on the bedside table, nodded once, and went back to his bed.
Hours later, the nurse brought it back to him—unopened.
"She asked me to return it," the nurse said softly.
Takudzwa didn't ask why. He already knew. Nyasha wasn't ready to forgive. Maybe she never would.
***
On the fifth evening, Takudzwa decided to try something gentle, personal—something that didn't shout money or pity. He'd noticed how Nyasha often stared out the hospital window, long after lights dimmed, as if the night sky carried her burdens.
So, with help from a nurse he'd bribed with pure charm and actual cash, he set up a small makeshift arrangement on the hospital rooftop—just two chairs, a flask of tea, and a borrowed telescope from the nearby science club.
He left a carefully wrapped note on her bedside table that simply read:
"I know you love the quiet. I won't say a word if you decide to come up. Just stars, tea, and silence. — TK"
And he waited.
And waited.
The tea grew cold, the moon shifted, and eventually the nurse returned… alone.
"She said the stars weren't going to fix anything," the nurse said gently, "and she asked me to tell you that silence doesn't heal wounds made by recklessness."
Takudzwa smiled faintly and looked up at the stars.
"She's right," he muttered, folding the note back into his pocket.
But he wasn't giving up. Not yet.
His phone rang. It was Jabu.
"I have the information you asked for," Jabu's voice came from the other end.
***
Nyasha sat on her hospital bed, her bandaged leg propped up by pillows. The ache in her body was nothing compared to the one in her heart. The hospital room felt colder that morning, lonelier, even though sunlight streamed through the half-open blinds.
Her phone vibrated on the tray next to her bed.
"Baba."
She wiped her face quickly, not wanting her voice to betray the tears still wet on her cheeks. She answered, forcing a brightness she didn't feel.
"Hi Baba…"
His voice crackled on the other end, warm, calm. "Mwanangu (my child), how are you feeling? I just heard. Why didn't you tell me you were in hospital?"
Her lips trembled. "I didn't want to worry you, Baba. You already have too much on your plate… I am okay. Just bruises, some stitches. Nothing serious."
She couldn't stop the tears from falling now. She covered her face with one hand, speaking through sobs.
"I was coming to Bulawayo… to work… so I could finish saving for your treatment. I had everything planned. I failed you."
There was a long pause. Then his voice came, softer than before, but firmer.
"Nyasha… That's what I called to talk to you about. Something strange happened. This morning, I went to the hospital to check on my treatment schedule…" He paused. "All the bills have been cleared. The full cost of the transplant. Paid. In advance."
She froze.
"What?"
"The doctor told me it was anonymous," he said.
Her breath hitched.
"I don't understand. Why would he…" her voice cracked.
"Why would who what?" her father said gently. "You know who it is?"
"I'm not sure," she said. "I'll have to find out." "Ok," he said. "But Nyasha… you don't have to carry everything on your shoulders. I'm here for you. Don't strain yourself."
She wiped at her face with trembling hands, unable to stop the tears. For a few moments, neither of them spoke—just the quiet sound of their breathing.
"Thank you, Baba," she whispered eventually. "I'll be home soon."
"I love you, daughter."
"I love you too."
The call ended, and Nyasha stared at the screen. Her chest felt tight—not with pain, but with something harder to define.
A relief she wasn't ready for.
A gratitude she wasn't sure how to show.
And a name—Takudzwa Mukwa—echoing through her mind.
Nyasha sat in silence, phone still in her hand, eyes fixed on the wall ahead. Her thoughts swirled, tangled between confusion, disbelief, and something warmer she wasn't ready to admit. The beeping machines faded into the background. Her tears had dried, but her chest still felt heavy.
She turned her head slowly toward the other bed across the ward, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Takue?"
There was no answer.
She shifted slightly, wincing as a dull ache moved through her side. She waited a moment, then called again, louder.
"Takudzwa?"
Still, silence.
The curtains fluttered faintly from the aircon, and her heart sank. The bed was empty. She hadn't even realized he was gone. For the first time since the accident, she didn't feel anger. Only questions. And maybe… gratitude.
She kept glancing at the door, hoping he'd walk in casually like before, say something smug or offer one of his ridiculous peace offerings. But he didn't come.
Minutes passed. Then an hour. Nurses moved in and out quietly. The lights outside the window dimmed as evening set in.
She lay back slowly, head sinking into the pillow. Her fingers curled loosely around her phone as she whispered one last time, more to herself now:
"Where did you go?"
And with that, her body gave in to exhaustion. She closed her eyes, the weight of everything melting into sleep.
***