Chapter 4
910 Words
Sarwa's PoV
I was jolted awake by the sharp ringing of my phone. Groggy, I reached out, but my hand brushed against something warm—someone.
My breath hitched.
When I forced my eyes open, the world spun—and then it hit me.
Pain. Everywhere.
A scream tore out of my throat as I shot upright, my body trembling.
"W-what happened?! Are you okay?" His voice was frantic, arms immediately wrapping around me as if I might shatter.
"What have you done?!" I cried, panic and fury crashing over me all at once. I pounded against his chest, struggling to break free. "Let go of me!"
My vision blurred with tears. I couldn’t breathe—I couldn’t think.
Only when my sobs turned violent did he finally release me.
"Shh… please, don’t cry," he murmured, his fingers trembling as they reached to wipe my tears.
I turned my face away sharply.
"I’m sorry… please forgive me. I’ll take responsibility. I—"
"I didn’t mean to—"
"Didn’t mean to what, Zeyan?!" My voice cracked as I cut him off. "How could you do this to me—"
The room lurched.
A wave of nausea slammed into me, and I stumbled toward the bathroom. I barely made it in time before collapsing over the sink, my body heaving.
Zeyan was right behind me.
His hand hovered for a second—hesitant—before gently resting on my back, rubbing slow circles as I retched.
Tears streamed down uncontrollably.
"Oh my God… I’m pregnant…" My voice came out broken, barely a whisper before it rose into a desperate sob. "I’m not ready… I’m not ready to be a mother…"
Another wave hit me, harsher this time.
Then—
A soft chuckle.
My head snapped up, fury blazing through the haze of sickness.
"You bastard! You have the nerve to laugh?!" I choked out. "I’ll sue you—just you wait!"
Nothing more came up, but my body kept shaking.
Silently, he handed me a glass of water
.
"Easy," he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "You’re just hungover. I’ll make you some soup."
And just like that, he left.
I stood there, gripping the sink, my reflection pale and unfamiliar with hickeys everywhere.
Hungover…?
Slowly, I made my way back to the bed, each step heavy. The moment I sat down, fragments of last night began crashing into me.
His voice telling me to stop.
His hands trying to push me away.
And me—
Laughing.
Teasing.
Pulling him closer.
Refusing to listen.
Forcing him.
My breath caught.
Cold dread seeped into my bones.
So… I was the one who crossed the line.
I was the one who took advantage of him.
A hollow feeling spread through my chest.
What have I done…?
And yet—I had the audacity to scream at him. To accuse him.
A bitter laugh almost escaped me, but it dissolved into silence.
The door creaked open.
Zeyan stepped inside, holding a bowl. Steam curled softly into the air.
I couldn’t look at him.
Didn’t deserve to.
"Drink this first," he said quietly, walking closer. "Then we’ll talk."
There was no anger in his voice. No blame.
That made it worse.
I took the bowl with shaky hands, avoiding his gaze, and drank it quickly—almost desperately.
"I remember," I muttered, my voice small. "There’s nothing to talk about."
My fingers tightened around the empty bowl.
"I’m sorry."
The words felt painfully insufficient.
A gentle touch lifted my chin.
I froze.
"No, he said softly, his eyes searching mine **** cold, not accusing.. just steady."We need to talk"
I opened my mouth to say more, but my hand-still clamped around the bowーdid something unexpected.
The bowl squealed.
A long, pathetic wail of ceramic complaints sliced through the tension and hung between us.
Both of us blinked.
I stared at my hand as if it belonged to someone else. The empty bowl trembled my grip like a live thing.
"Uh." Zeyan's mouth twitched. He looked at the bowl, then at me, then back at the bowl again.
The steam stung my nose.
Suddenly I felt ridiculous—dramatically guilty one heartbeat, absurdly small and clumsy the next.
"Seriously?" I whispered, mortified.
Then Zeyan did the impossible: he laughed, Not a cruel laughーjust an incredulous burst of amusement that made his eyes crinkle.
I snatched the bowl away like a guilty culprit and hugged it to my chest, half to hide, half to protect the tiny ceramic sound I'd made.
"You're impossible," he said, chuckling as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Only you could turn an emotional confrontation into a pottery solo"
My face burned hot. I wanted to disappear **** the sound of his laugh steadied me in an odd way. The ice in my stomach shifted, thinning a fraction.
"Fine" I muttered. "Talk."
He shook his head, still smiling. "Start from the beginning. And no more surprise percussion."
It was the smallest, most human moment- an awkward, clumsy comedy that broke the weight between us instead of fixing it. But for the first time since waking, I felt something like relief.
His hand found mine and squeezed- gentle, grounding.
We had a lot to untangle. But for now, the bowl was quiet, and he was laughing, and I wasn't sure whether to cry or to laugh with him.
I chose to do both.
- Writer
