The ward was quieter now. The buzz of visiting families had faded with the setting sun, and the soft golden light slipped through the blinds like a gentle hush over everything it touched. Nyasha sat on her bed, propped up by pillows, her gaze drifting to the window, though her thoughts were miles away.
She felt lonely. For the past two days, Takudzwa hadn't tried to bother or impress her or even talk to her. He'd let her be. No elaborate gifts, no dramatic gestures. Just a calm, steady presence—there in the corridor when she went for her short walks, there during her quiet mealtimes in the shared lounge. Never intruding, never forcing. She often passed by his ward and peeped through before going back to her own. What was happening?
He was scarce now. Keeping his distance ever since their conversation. And maybe that was the gesture that mattered.
But today, something was different.
When the nurse wheeled in the dinner tray, Nyasha noticed a small paper bag beside her plate. Curious, she opened it to find a warm samosa and a tiny bottle of chili sauce — from Dino's, the tiny corner café she loved in Harare, famous for their handmade pastries. She hadn't had one in years. This brought back memories. Her mother used to bring her to Dino's when she was a little girl. They lived in Chitungwiza then and her mother worked at Dino's as a waitress. Nyasha felt tears coming to her eyes.
She blinked in confusion, then looked up at the nurse.
"Who brought this?"
The nurse smiled knowingly.
"A friend said it might cheer you up. Said you've been too serious lately.
Nyasha stared at the bag, fingers brushing the grease-stained paper. Tears welled in her eyes. As she ate, she remembered the taste, the laugh as her mother had tried to be strong for her, just like how she was trying to be strong for her father. The samosas brought everything back. And Nyasha really appreciated the gesture.
Later that evening, as she stepped carefully down the corridor with her IV stand, she found Takudzwa sitting quietly on one of the benches, reading a business report on his tablet. He looked up as she approached, but didn't speak first.
She stopped in front of him.
"You are not in your bed?"
"So are you," he replied switching the screen off.
"I came to find you..." she said quietly.
"Oh, really?" he said with raised eyebrows. "What did I do now?"
"Shut up," she said. She raised the package with her good hand. "What is this? Where did you get this?"
"I don't know what that is," he said indifferently. "Looks like a food package to me from... Dino's? You have Dino's in Gweru?"
"Don't play dumb, Takue," she said.
"I like how you said Takue," he said with a grin.
"Oh, be quiet," she said. "I know it's you who bought it for me."
"I don't know what you are talking about -"
"You do," she said. "How did you get it so fast from Harare?"
TK shrugged his shoulders.
"You flew someone to Harare to get me a samosa?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, amused.
Takudzwa smirked.
"Technically, I had someone pick it up on their way from a delivery. But yes."
She sat beside him slowly, careful of her stitches.
"I haven't had one in ages," she said softly. "The memories were getting blurry. How did you know?"
"I notice things," he said, voice softer now. "Even when you think I don't.
"I'm serious, Takue," she said. "How?"
"I don't know," he said. "A hunch I guess."
Nyasha let out a thin smile. "You should work on your lies."
"What?" he said. "I'm a very good liar."
There was a long pause, filled only by the soft hum of a nearby vending machine.
"It helped," she said finally. "I… actually smiled today. Properly. So… thank you."
He looked at her, genuinely surprised.
"That was the point."
"Doesn't mean I like you," she added quickly, a playful edge in her tone. "Just means… you're tolerable now."
He laughed, not his usual cocky laugh, but one that seemed to loosen something in him too. He took a moment to look at her.
"You have a beautiful smile," he said softly. " You should smile more."
"Don't flirt with me, Mukwa."
"I'm not," he said. "It's a genuine compliment."
"Don't lie," she said pointing a finger at him. "Now please tell me how you know about my history with Dino's. 'Cause it can't truly be a coincidence."
"You don't wanna know."
They sat there until the hallway lights dimmed.
It was the first time she hadn't walked away. And for him, it was the first time she'd stayed.
***
The next few days in the hospital became a quiet dance of gestures — small, thoughtful, and disarming. Takudzwa didn't push, didn't charm with words or flaunt his wealth. He simply showed up, in ways that slowly peeled back the armor Nyasha had spent years building.
One morning, Nyasha found a slim leather-bound journal on her bedside table. Inside the cover, a single line was written in elegant cursive:
"Sometimes writing is the only way to breathe."
No name. No note. But she knew it was from him.
She hadn't told anyone how much she used to write — poems, thoughts, letters she never sent. How did he know all that about her. That day, she picked up a pen for the first time in months. She wrote everything that had happened in a fast paced manner to cover everything up to date. The thrill she got from writing was phenomenal.
She didn't thank him. But she clutched the journal when the nurse wheeled her out for tests.
On the third night, she sat in the common lounge with a book in hand when a soft melody played from the corner. One of the hospital speakers — normally used for staff announcements — now played an old song by Oliver Mtukudzi.
Her mother used to hum it while doing dishes. The memory hit deep. Nyasha looked up and saw TK at the nurse's station, pretending to be busy on his phone, but watching her from the corner of his eye.
She didn't say anything. But when their eyes met, she nodded — barely and a smile almost escaped her lips.
Nyasha had grown used to making her own tea. The hospital tea was bland, too milky. So, she boiled water each morning with a small heater and added her own herbs.
One morning, she found a neatly folded napkin beside her cup with fresh mufandichimuka leaves and a teabag she hadn't seen before — imported, cinnamon-laced rooibos.
She smiled quietly
When she saw him later in the hospital cafeteria passing by in a hoodie and joggers, she simply,
"What were those herbs?"
"Huh?"
"Come on, don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about," she said. "The tea. It tasted like heaven.
"Well, tea should taste like peace, not punishment."
"So, what was the name of those herbs?"
"A magician never reviews his secrets."
She rolled her eyes, but the smile lingered.
***
One night, she had trouble sleeping. She had received a call from her father's doctor with an update. Now she was worried that he might suffer while she was here, powerless. She stepped out for air and found the hospital guard gone.
But Takudzwa was there, seated just outside the entrance, arms folded, jacket draped around his shoulders.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"Told the guard I'd watch the door tonight. He needed a nap. I needed a minute to breathe too."
"How did you know that I'd come out?"
"I have superpowers," he simply said.
"Do you ever get serious?"
"Serious makes people grow old fast," he said. "And growing old means you are a step closer to death. I don't like that idea."
"Everybody dies eventually."
"It doesn't mean that you have to accelerate the process. You are so uptight, aren't you?"
"So, what if I am?" she asked.
"I mean, there is no need to take everything seriously and literally," he said with a laugh. "Loosen up a little."
"Hahahaha," she said. "Funny."
"Told you I am funny," he said with a smile. "What about you? What are you doing out here?"
"Couldn't sleep."
They stood side by side for a while, not talking.
She didn't go back to bed right away.
***
One morning, tucked into her file of test results, was a folded note. It wasn't signed.
"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds – Psalm 147:3."
She blinked hard. She hadn't told anyone how much she clung to scripture lately. How could he know? When they talked later that day, she asked how he knew what he knew about her and like always he deflected.
"And how do you know scriptures?" she asked. "I thought you were a party boy."
"You'd be surprised to find how much scripture I know," he replied. "Back when I was youngster we used to recite new Bible chapters every day."
"Are you for real right now?" she asked, amused.
"Yeah," he said with a nod. "I may even know the holy scriptures more than you do."
"You wish."
So the contest began to find out who knew more scriptures than the other. Nyasha won.
She kept the note. It lived in her journal from that day on.
***
On Day 8, a sketch appeared at her bedside. A pencil-drawn portrait — her, sitting with a distant stare, clutching her tea.
He had captured her pain without making her look weak.
When she found him later near the vending machines, she approached quietly.
"You draw?"
"Sometimes," he said.
"What can't you do?"
"Beat you at scripture contest," he said. "Apparently."
She laughed.
"It's… beautiful," she admitted. "And painfully accurate."
He didn't speak. Just shrugged.
And when she sat beside him, this time she didn't bring her book — just herself.
***
Each gesture, quiet and sincere, dissolved another wall.
And though Nyasha hadn't said it aloud, her heart had started to lean toward him… against her better judgment.
***
Nyasha stirred as soft morning light slipped through the hospital curtains. She winced slightly, the dull ache in her ribs reminding her she was still healing. As she turned to adjust her pillow, her eyes caught something on the bedside table — a small folded note, the kind Takudzwa had slipped her before.
Her heart lifted in anticipation. She had gotten used to his gifts, his presence, his gestures. She moved quickly to reach for the note, expecting something thoughtful, maybe another verse or a dry joke in his barely-legible scrawl.
But when she unfolded it, the words were blunt.
"I've been discharged."
That was it. No "get well soon." No "see you around." Not even a signature flourish. Just… an end.
She stared at it for a long while, hoping maybe she missed something. A clue, a number scribbled in the corner, even a doodle. Nothing.
A hollow pang spread in her chest, slow and bitter. She told herself it didn't matter. That he was just a reckless playboy, and she'd allowed herself to believe there was something more.
But the silence he left behind was louder than anything he'd ever said.
She kept looking at the entrance of the ward hoping that he would emerge and tell her that the note was a joke to mess with her heard.
She kept opening the note and read it again as the words would change. She would then fold the note neatly and placed it in her journal — tucked between the Psalm and the sketch. Then lay back quietly, blinking at the ceiling as an unexpected heaviness settled in.
The silence that day was too much. She wandered about hoping she would bump into him but he was nowhere to be seen. He was really gone. Of course they always left.
She was discharged the following day.
Her bags were light, but her heart… that was a different story.
***