The air was thick with the smell of stale smoke and something I couldn’t quite place. The living room was a mess with dusty floors, peeling walls, and clothes scattered everywhere.
Judging by how dirty and disheveled the place was, I almost thought that nobody could possibly be living here. Then I heard movements from the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of shattering ceramic—like a plate falling off a counter.
“Dang it,” a weary voice murmured.
With quiet footsteps, I stepped closer, craning my neck for a better view. And that was when I tripped over a slippery cloth on the floor. My arms flailed in the air, scrambling for support, an abrupt gasp tearing from my throat. Luckily for me, I managed to catch myself and didn’t hit the ground.
“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath.
“Who’s there?!” a deep voice thundered, weak but firm enough to scare the shit out of me.
Before I could speak, he emerged from the kitchen with a ceramic plate and a wipe in his hands. His hazel eyes widened in a mix of shock and surprise as he stood there in silence, watching me.
It was him.
He looked thinner than I remembered, weaker and more sickly. His lips were dry and cracked, with bags under his eyes. His bald head seemed to catch the soft light above, his gaze still fixed on me. He looked pale and hunched, the sickness wrapping around him like silk.
“You came,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Silence.
I couldn’t find the right words to say to him right now, and at the same time, I wasn’t sure how seeing him made me feel. I was angry and sympathetic about his current situation. From where I was standing, he looked like a man whose days on earth were numbered. He was dying—that’s for sure.
“Please, take a seat.” He gestured at the worn-out couch beside me.
I couldn’t help noticing the tinge of excitement in his tone when he spoke. And when he moved, it seemed to take a lot of strength to take a step forward.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” he said, referring to the chaotic space. “Just pretend you’re in a palace.” A soft chuckle escaped his lips.
I stared blankly, unimpressed by his dry joke.
“What can I get you?” he asked, standing at a reasonable distance from me.
I liked it—I didn’t want him coming close anyway.
“Nothing. I’m good,” came my reply.
A glint of disappointment flashed across his face, but I couldn’t care less. Quietly, I sat on the nearest couch, hands on my lap as I struggled to mask my irritation.
I could’ve sworn that I heard his bones crack as he sank into the sofa across from me.
What the hell happened to you?I thought, unable to reconcile the man I used to know with this shabby figure sitting in front of me.
“I heard you wrote your final exams yesterday,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of pride. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I answered.
For the next few seconds, silence fell between us, and I noticed his inability to hold my gaze. It was almost like he was afraid to look me in the eyes, and that’s why his eyes were everywhere but on my face.
“How’s your grandmother?” he asked, his voice filling the awkward silence.
What came next was a cough—one so hoarse and dry it terrified me.
He covered his mouth with a brown handkerchief, his free hand tapping his fist against his chest. “Sorry about that.” He cleared his throat. “How is she?”
I hesitated, my gaze unwavering. “She’s fine.”
He nodded his head. “And you? How haveyoubeen?”
