SOLINKA AND HAK SENG

The night fades into day, only for the night to return once more. The weekends always slip by too quickly, as if time accelerates when you're trying to savor it.

I returned home late this Sunday, weary from a meeting with close friends, discussing potential freelance projects and my hopes of pursuing a master's degree to open the door to university classes.

I had imagined that Solin was spending another joyful evening with her parents and relatives, just as she had the night before, and I assumed she wouldn't be back until morning. 

But my thoughts were far from the truth. There she was, standing alone at the edge of the corridor, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight.

Her light blue dress wrapped around her figure like a delicate whisper, and in the silence of the night, she seemed to be waiting for something—or someone. The sight of her there, in the stillness of the hour, struck me with a sudden wave of emotion.

She wasn't where I thought she'd be, yet somehow, she was exactly where I needed her to be.

"Solin?" I called softly, my voice trailing as I approached her. She met my gaze, a fleeting smile touching her lips.

"Are you home?" I asked, my voice laced with curiosity.

She seemed hesitant, her eyes flickering briefly before she responded. 

"Why are you here? I thought you were with your family."

Her face, once open and warm, fell into a distant look as she turned toward the ground. A heaviness seemed to settle over her, and she shook her head. My concern deepened.

"Are you alright?" I asked gently, my voice laced with worry. She shook her head once more, the motion subtle yet resolute, her serene sad eyes silently conveying that something far worse had occurred.

"You look so upset... tell me what happened," I pressed, my voice barely a whisper now, fearing the weight of her silence.

She moved closer, her presence both fragile and urgent. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around me, and the shock of her embrace sent a jolt through me. For a moment, I stood still, unsure, before I finally hugged her back, the action instinctive but filled with questions I wasn't ready to voice.

"I'm not alright," she whispered, her words barely audible, yet somehow clearer than anything else in the world. 

"I need you... to take care of me."

Her voice was soft, low—a melody of vulnerability that struck deep within me. I held her tighter, kissed her forehead as though trying to offer the comfort her words had sought, and we both remained in the silence, understanding more than words could ever say.

***

She sat on the sofa, her posture fragile, as I knelt before her. Her face was a portrait of distress, a heaviness in her eyes that made my heart ache. I couldn't piece together what had happened at her family gathering to leave her so broken, to wound her so deeply. It was as if the pain never truly left her, a constant shadow haunting her thoughts.

I reached for her hands, holding them gently, as if offering some comfort in the storm that seemed to rage within her.

"You look so tired, so worn down," I whispered, my voice tender. "Rest for a moment. Let me bring you some water."

She nodded slowly, the smallest of movements, as if every ounce of energy had been drained from her.

The silence between us lingered, thick and heavy, until I noticed a subtle shift in her expression. She seemed just a little lighter, a faint easing of the tension that had gripped her since she entered. It was as if she was gathering the strength to speak, to share whatever had caused this storm of sadness within her.

I couldn't help but wonder, if things had gone well, she wouldn't have returned tonight. The thought gnawed at me, but I pushed it aside, focusing on her.

"Who did this to you?" I asked, my voice soft but firm, filled with the urgency of wanting to understand. "What happened? I'm here, okay? You can tell me."

She drew in a slow, steady breath, the weight of the memory pressing against her chest. Her eyes fluttered for a moment, as if trying to escape the shadows of the past. Then, with a soft sigh, she began, her voice a fragile thread in the quiet room.

"The evening gathering," she murmured, her gaze drifting to some faraway place. 

"It was filled with the usual chatter—laughter that felt too loud, conversations that never quite touched the truth. But something shifted as the night wore on. Unspoken tensions, the kind that lurk beneath the surface, began to rise."

***

The private dining room exuded a cozy warmth, its atmosphere intimate and serene, punctuated only by the gentle hum of family conversations. As I surveyed the room, my eyes drifted over the table.

It was larger than I had expected, a detail that lingered in my mind, but I quickly pushed the thought aside, unwilling to let it disrupt the moment. My mom, dad, elder sister, aunt, and I sat around the table, each of us waiting patiently for the feast to arrive.

The air carried a quiet anticipation, broken only by the occasional clink of silverware or murmured words.

When the door finally opened, I glanced up, expecting to see the waiter with trays of steaming dishes. Instead, there he was—Hak Seng—standing there alongside his mother, Madam Phalla.

Aside from Madam Phalla, Mr. Song Sambath, Hak Seng's father, is the younger biological brother of our company's president. He exuded an air of authority, a man whose presence commanded respect. With a high rank in social affairs, he was a figure of influence, while Madam Phalla managed several businesses of her own.

When Mr. Sambath smiled, it was soft, yet carried an undeniable firmness—his respect for us evident in every gesture. Our encounters were few, brief moments that left an impression, for he was always consumed by his own responsibilities.

To see him here, in this space, was no small thing; it must have required a great deal of effort from Hak. His father's presence, though rare, was a testament to the weight his family carried, and the distance they often had to travel—both physically and metaphorically.

Continued...