Chapter 4: Shadows of Longing

I have always believed that time has a cruel sense of humor. It drags when you wish for it to pass quickly and slips away when you want it to stay. With Sia, time never felt like an enemy. It was a soft whisper, a fleeting moment of peace in a life that was otherwise riddled with thorns. But with each passing day, I found myself craving more of that peace, more of her presence, more of the quiet comfort she unknowingly provided.

The village marketplace was always bustling with life, with vendors shouting, children running, and the scent of freshly baked bread mingling with the earthy aroma of herbs. But for me, there was only one thing that mattered—the sight of her. If I spotted her weaving through the crowd, helping her grandmother carry baskets of pickles, my day would feel lighter. If I didn't see her, it was as if the world had lost its color.

There were days when she didn't come, and those were the days I hated the most. I would wander aimlessly through the village, pretending to look at wares while my heart ached with an inexplicable longing. What if she was sick? What if something had happened to her? The thought alone was unbearable.

But I never spoke about it, not even to myself. Instead, I forced myself to accept that she was just a friend—nothing more. And yet, I found ways to be close to her without making it obvious.

When she wasn't around, I would go to her grandmother's stall and buy pickles. I didn't even like pickles, but it was the only way I could help her, the only way I could feel connected to her in her absence. Her grandmother would smile and give me an extra portion sometimes, perhaps seeing through my silent intentions, but she never questioned why a boy like me would spend so much on something so trivial.

The money I used wasn't mine. I stole from my father when he was too drunk to notice, or worse, too angry to care. Other times, I let myself be the target of the school bullies. They enjoyed pushing me around, laughing as they shoved me into the dirt, and sometimes, just for their own twisted amusement, they'd throw a few coins at me afterward. A reward for enduring their cruelty.

It was humiliating. Every bruise, every ache in my ribs, every cut on my lip was a price I willingly paid. Because at the end of the day, if it meant helping Sia in some way, it was worth it.

One evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, I saw her again. She was laughing, tossing her hair back as she spoke to a little girl who had come to buy pickles. That laughter—it did something to me. It made my chest feel tight, my hands clammy, my throat dry. I wanted to be the reason she smiled like that.

"Zavian?"

Her voice startled me, and I realized I had been standing there, staring like a fool. I quickly composed myself, offering a weak smile as she approached.

"You buy a lot of pickles," she noted with a teasing grin. "Do you really like them that much?"

I shrugged, stuffing my hands into my pockets. "They're… decent."

She narrowed her eyes at me, as if she could see right through my lie. "Hmm… I don't believe you."

I laughed, scratching the back of my head. "Maybe I just like supporting your grandmother's business."

She tilted her head, her smile softening. "That's sweet, Zavian."

Sweet. If only she knew the extent of my desperation, of the lengths I was willing to go just to make her life a little easier.

But I wouldn't tell her. Not now. Maybe not ever.

For now, I would be content with these small moments, these fleeting interactions. Even if my hands ached from the bruises, even if my heart screamed for more, I would stay silent. Because at the end of the day, it didn't matter how much I wanted her.

She deserved more than what I could give.

Day after day, I found myself lingering in the village longer than I should. My feet always took me to the same places—near her grandmother's stall, near the narrow paths she often walked, near the little stream where she sometimes sat alone, watching the water ripple.

Each time we crossed paths, it was nothing more than a simple exchange of words, a fleeting glance, a quick smile. But to me, those moments meant everything.

Some days, I would catch her adjusting her scarf, shielding herself from the cold breeze. Other times, she would be focused on carrying baskets, her small frame burdened with weight far heavier than what she should have to bear. I wanted to help, but I knew she would never let me.

Instead, I found other ways. Leaving extra coins at the stall when I bought pickles. Helping vendors move their goods, just so I could overhear her voice as she chatted with the townsfolk. Offering to carry water buckets for an elderly man, just to steal a moment to see her from afar.

It was pitiful, but it was all I had.

There were times when she seemed to notice my presence more often. A soft look in her eyes, a moment of hesitation before speaking, as if she was slowly growing aware of how often we met.

One late afternoon, as she wiped sweat from her brow, she looked up at me and chuckled. "You're always here, aren't you?"

I swallowed hard, pretending to act indifferent. "Maybe the village just has a lot to offer."

She smirked, handing a small jar of pickles to a customer. "Or maybe you just have nowhere else to be."

I wanted to say something, anything, but before I could, she turned away, busying herself with her work. And just like that, the moment was gone.

But the longing didn't fade. It grew, creeping into every part of me, until I could no longer deny what I felt.

One night, under the dim glow of lanterns, I finally told her.

"I like you, Sia. More than I should. And I would do anything for you—to protect you, to make your life beautiful."

She stared at me, eyes wide, lips parted in surprise. And for the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid of what came next.