The next morning, the house was heavy with an unspoken tension. I avoided Clara, staying in my room as much as I could. But the memory of her flushed cheeks, her lingering gaze, and the way she had nervously stepped back kept replaying in my mind. It wasn’t just embarrassment—there was something more, something unspoken that neither of us dared to name.
By late afternoon, I realized I couldn’t stay hidden forever. Hunger eventually drove me to the kitchen. Clara was there, cutting vegetables with her usual precision. Her blonde hair was tied back, and she wore a loose sweater that somehow still looked elegant on her. She glanced at me as I entered, offering a small, cautious smile.
“Hey,” she said softly, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace between us.
“Hey,” I replied, my voice quieter than usual. I hesitated near the counter, unsure of what to say or do.
“I was preparing dinner,” she continued, her tone casual but her movements a little too careful. “I thought maybe we could eat together tonight.”
I nodded, sitting at the small dining table. The silence between us was palpable, broken only by the rhythmic sound of her knife against the cutting board. I found myself watching her again—the way her hands moved, the curve of her neck as she tilted her head slightly. I tried to look away, but my eyes kept drifting back to her.
Dinner was quiet, almost normal, but the air was charged. We made small talk about the weather, about errands Clara needed to run. It felt forced, as though we were both trying too hard to pretend nothing had changed.
After we finished eating, Clara stood to clear the table. “There’s dessert if you want,” she offered, her back to me as she placed the dishes in the sink.
“I think I’m good,” I replied, my voice trembling. I needed to get out of there, to escape the intensity I felt whenever I was near her.
But as I got up to leave, Clara turned, and we almost collided. Her hand brushed against mine, and the slight touch sent a jolt through my entire body. We both froze, her dark brown eyes meeting mine.
“Bela...” she started, her voice soft and hesitant. There was something in the way she looked at me, something vulnerable and uncertain. “About last night—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupted quickly, stepping back. My heart was racing, and I couldn’t handle how my body reacted to her closeness. “You don’t need to explain.”
“I do,” she insisted, her gaze firm. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable in your own home.”
“I don’t,” I lied, my voice barely above a whisper. “It was nothing.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, I thought she might argue. But then she sighed, the tension in her shoulders softening. “If you’re sure.”
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure of anything.
That night, sleep didn’t come easily. I tossed and turned, the memory of Clara’s voice, her touch, and the way she had looked at me playing over and over in my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about her, no matter how hard I tried.
Around midnight, I gave up on trying to sleep and decided to get some fresh air. I threw on a hoodie and made my way downstairs. The house was dark and silent, the only sound the faint creak of the floorboards beneath my feet. When I looked into the living room, I froze. Clara was there, sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in one hand and touching herself with the other.
For a moment, it felt as if time had stopped. My breath caught, and my heart raced. I should have left, should have pretended I hadn’t seen anything, but my feet felt glued to the floor, unable to move.
Clara was so absorbed in what she was doing that she didn’t notice me. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips slightly parted as she murmured something softly. My name escaped her lips again, almost like a whisper, and it sent a shockwave through my body.
I wanted to speak, to interrupt, but my voice failed me. Instead, all I could do was watch, my face burning with shame and something else I couldn’t identify. It was wrong. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t look away.
Finally, Clara opened her eyes and saw me. For a moment, she froze, shock written all over her face as her hands abruptly stopped.
“Bela...” she began, her voice trembling, her eyes wide. She quickly adjusted her sweater, trying to compose herself. “I... I didn’t know you were there.”
I still couldn’t speak. My throat was dry, and my face felt like it was on fire. All I could do was slowly shake my head, as if that would somehow explain everything.
“I’m so sorry,” Clara said, her tone desperate, the guilt clear in her eyes. “This... this wasn’t meant for you to see.”
“I... I’m going to my room,” I managed to murmur, my voice so weak it barely sounded like mine.
I turned quickly and went upstairs, my heart still hammering in my chest. When I reached my room, I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, trying to steady my breathing.
What had just happened?
My mind was a mess, every image and sound from that scene still burned into my memory. Clara, saying my name, her face when she realized I was there... It was too much to process.
I tried to lie down and close my eyes, but the images kept coming back, along with an overwhelming sensation I couldn’t explain. There was shame, yes, but there was also curiosity. And perhaps, deep down, something even more unsettling.