6

Their fight was over, and as always, Amara stepped in to clean the room. She worked quietly, listening to Maxwell rant about his life—mostly about his love life. Every time he got drunk, he would tell Amara that he had no intention of marrying Sianna and that he didn't love her. But the next day, it was always the same: Sianna would show up in tears, Maxwell would forgive her, and the cycle would continue. Maybe it was because he had promised his mother he'd never hurt Sianna, or maybe he was just foolish when it came to love.

"Amara, do I look stupid?" the man asked sadly, sitting in the chair with a glass of wine in hand.

"No, sir," Amara replied, her tone respectful. She had fought alongside him in wars for years, and she cared deeply for him, recognizing the pain etched on his face as he took another sip.

"Tell the truth. Do I look easy to manipulate? Do i look easy to cheat? " he pressed, his eyes searching hers.

"I don't know what that means, there is nothing wrong with you " she said, fully aware of his implications. She knew that offering advice rarely led to good outcomes.

"stop parroting the others! I know I'm the gossip of the town—me and my love, who does whatever she wants. And people thinks I forgive her because I love her." His voice was steady, but the sadness beneath was palpable. He wasn't crying, yet the heartbreak was evident.

"Amara, what do you think?" he asked, his voice filled with longing.

As she cleaned the bottle and garbage, Amara looked at her captain. "I don't think you're stupid, sir. I think you're merely drunk on delusion—you're not sober yet."

He paused, setting down the glass and fixing his gaze on her. "What do you mean, drunk?"

""Love is similar to being drunk," she said. "In the beginning, it's amazing, almost euphoric. You lose your sense of direction, and everything feels good—you can't see or hear things clearly, and you're off your path. But when the high fades, you're left with a pounding headache and regret, wishing you hadn't indulged. Yet, you return to it because that feeling is just so comforting."

He looked at her, feeling a sense of comfort from her words, he was not drunk . Yet Amara still believed he was drunk, convinced he would never remember this conversation—it was always like this. He would fight, confide in Amara, apologize to his lover, and they would reconcile, a cycle everyone had come to accept.

Max, however, listened intently. Her words brought him relief, even though he had never experienced such feelings himself. He watched Amara, focused as ever on her cleaning, her routine a constant in the chaos.

"Amara, you think I will forgive him this time, right?" he asked, the seriousness in his voice striking her.

Amara looked at him, sensing the unusual weight behind his question. "I don't know, sir," she replied and smile.

Amara continued cleaning in silence, her mind racing. "I'm not drunk, Amara, did you hear our conversation?" he said suddenly, dropping his drink on the floor, the glass shattering. He looked at her, and she was surprised; he had never done this before.

"No sir?" she asked, a mix of fear and curiosity bubbling within her. She worried he might respond with anger or something dismissive.

"You didn't hear?" he smiled, his expression softening.

"I weren't listening to your conversations, sir ." Amara replied, her voice steady but cautious.

Max regarded her, a warm smile playing on his lips. He knew she was still the same—quiet and reserved, often misunderstood as having no interest in conversation when, in truth, she was merely scared.

"Hmmm She kissed my brother to punish me," Max said, his tone shifting to one of vulnerability.