Unspoken Realizations

She understood enough English to piece that together, though she kept her reaction modest. Art? Me? The notion was so alien after a lifetime of being cursed or stoned. But seeing it spelled out in glossy digital form hammered home that not everyone found her beauty monstrous. Something inside her softened, a small bud of self-worth blossoming despite her wariness.

Their rations dwindled as they gnawed more bars for lunch. Mike frowned, checking how little remained. Fanta recognized the concern. Eventually, they'd need real food—maybe he planned to trap small game or find a path to a distant settlement. She pressed her lips together, determined to help with foraging if her ankle allowed. Her mother had taught her a few tips about edible roots or berries, though this part of Okiya Forest might hold species she didn't recognize.

For now, they pressed onward, the unwavering lens of Mike's camera capturing glimpses of wildlife and the shifting tapestry of green. Occasionally, Fanta caught him slyly aiming it at her again—her hair in silhouette, her face half-lit by golden rays. She tolerated it, each shot feeling like a small step away from the scorn she'd known, even as it pricked her nerves. If only Mama could see I'm not cursed in everyone's eyes.

Mid-afternoon found them crossing a shallow creek. Mike offered his hand to steady Fanta. Their fingers brushed, and a spark of awareness jolted them both. She caught a whiff of her own sweet fragrance intensifying under the sun's heat. Mike inhaled, pupils dilating momentarily. She felt her cheeks blaze. In Ogamba, her smell was demonized. Here, it was part of what drew him closer.

The undercurrent of romantic tension ran strong. She sensed his desire in every lingering glance, in how his breath quickened whenever she shifted nearer. She was 18, never having known men intimately, never kissed or even held by someone who saw her as more than a freak. A subtle thrill warred with caution—should she welcome his interest or keep her distance?

Yet each time she glimpsed the kindness in his eyes, she found it harder to remain aloof. She realized he was risking a lot traveling with an injured local girl, sharing his limited resources, even protecting her from predators. Perhaps he truly saw her as a fragile yet mesmerizing figure deserving help.

By day's end, they located a more sheltered clearing near a tall rock face. Thick vines draped the stones, and a small trickle of water seeped from a fissure, forming a tiny pool. Mike tested it, deemed it somewhat drinkable. They set up camp once more, repeating the routine: a tarp for shelter, a small fire ring.

Yet the dynamic had subtly changed. Each time Fanta moved, Mike's gaze lingered, as though memorizing every graceful motion. She caught him trailing her with the camera, snapping candids of her rinsing mud from her arms, or leaning against a mossy boulder. It was photography gold, he'd said, beaming at the results. If she looked at the camera's screen, the images showed her in poses reminiscent of professional model shoots—pristine skin and violet hair set against the lush green. Her blue-ruby eyes flashing at the lens with a haunting glow.

For a moment, she allowed herself to admire the artistry. She looked almost ethereal, not the battered outcast fleeing Ogamba. Tears pricked her eyes, unexpected gratitude mingling with sorrow. If only Mama knew I'm seen like this, not cursed.

Darkness crept in again, the second night they'd share together. Fanta helped gather extra wood, mindful that predators lurked. She recalled the leopard from last night, hoping the perfume might keep her natural aroma subdued. Mike cast her worried looks, but she managed a reassuring nod. She refused to remain idle when she could offer her village-born skills in collecting kindling and building a safer fire structure.

Over the dancing flames, they ate the last of Mike's ration bars. She sighed, hunger gnawing. He must have felt the same, tapping the empty wrappers with frustration. Tomorrow, they'd have to forage or trap something. He tried talking about possible routes to a bigger settlement or a remote trader's outpost, stumbling over words. She gleaned enough to see his determination: He wanted to keep her safe, find real help or civilization.

Fanta curled onto the mat, shoulders brushing Mike's arm. The closeness made her heart hammer. She inhaled, catching both his earthy sweat and the faint remnants of her mother's perfume. An unspoken current of desire pulsed between them, the night's hush amplifying every breath. She risked glancing at him. He stared back, lips parted slightly, as though wanting to speak. Their gazes locked. Heat sizzled in that moment, reminiscent of the romances she'd read in secrecy.

But neither crossed the line. A shared moment's hush, an almost-kiss that never happened. Then he turned away, rummaging for his camera. She pressed her burning face to her knees, half relieved, half disappointed.

This was new territory—a man enraptured by her in every sense, not recoiling. She recognized the swirl of conflicting emotions: fear, curiosity, longing. Could she trust him enough to let him get closer? Or would I risk heartbreak—or worse?

When dawn broke on the third day since their meeting, Fanta awoke to find Mike gently stoking the fire. He wore a soft smile, though shadows of fatigue lined his face. She realized he must have dozed lightly, always on alert for predators. A stirring warmth fluttered in her chest—he guarded her as though she mattered.

She rose, brushing dirt from her battered dress, hair cascading in a purple tumble. Mike blinked, then grabbed the camera for another shot. She let out a tiny groan, half-amused, half-resigned. He's unstoppable. Still, seeing her own face in those frames was a bizarre validation. She no longer felt revulsion at her reflection—maybe even a hint of pride.

They extinguished the fire, stowed gear, and prepared to move deeper into the forest. Mike pantomimed a route on his map, pointing away from Ogamba once again. She nodded fervently, the memory of Handuza and her friends drowning her in the river still too raw to consider returning. If any shred of hope existed for her future, it was beyond Ogamba's reach.

Before they set off, Mike placed his hand lightly on her arm, his blue eyes meeting hers with earnest softness. "We… go. Together," he said in labored dialect. She found herself smiling—the first genuine smile since her exile.

They began their day's hike. The forest was alive with morning calls—birds trilling, monkeys chattering in high branches. Fanta's ankle felt stable, her bruises less painful. She matched Mike's stride more easily, though she let him think she was still somewhat tender-footed. Every so often, he'd pause to snap a photo of a bird or bug, then inevitably swivel the lens her way, enthralled by the sight of her graceful posture amid towering ferns. She'd feign exasperation, but inwardly, she felt an odd sense of comfort—someone saw her as breathtaking, not abhorrent.

As the sun climbed, heat weighed on them, sweat forming anew. Fanta brushed damp strands of purple hair from her brow. She thought of her mother, Anayara, alone in Ogamba. The pang of separation gnawed at her, but each time her resolve to return wavered, she remembered the vile stares, the mud, the choke of river water. No—she couldn't go back. Better to remain with Mike, forging a new path. At least with him, her existence felt safer, if still uncertain.