The young lady met someone who looked like a friend—but was never really a friend.
Trish was born in a city plagued by chaos. Her parents were eccentric, almost psychotic, drawn together by coincidence, in a world that had lost its rhythm.
Her father once visited a friend—a doctor—at a hospital. Outside the building, he noticed a fair, beautiful young lady sobbing quietly by the gate. He approached her gently.
"Peace and blessings of the Lord be upon you, dear lady. What's wrong?"
She didn't reply, her head bowed as tears streamed down her cheeks.
He moved closer and began with soft words:
"A choice is a decision, and sometimes, what we choose may not bring joy. Sometimes, sweet words don't ease the pain. But nature often has its way—it chooses the hard truths over soothing lies. I don't know what makes your eyes weep, nor the weight you carry. But my heart hurts to see your sorrow.
If I could understand what wounded your heart, I'd gladly face it. I'm sorry for appearing on your bad day, but perhaps angels come to us in strange forms. Strangers, too, deserve kindness, and maybe I can help. My intent is not to win your heart with poetry or charm, but to offer genuine comfort."
She wiped her tears and softly said, "I'm fine."
He leaned in gently, "When a lady says 'I'm fine' in a moment like this, it usually means the opposite. I understand how women often suppress their emotions behind kind words. Please, let me help."
She hesitated, then whispered, "My sister is in the hospital. She's dying."
"Can I see her?" he asked.
She led him to the ward—Lab 9—where her sister lay asleep, a drip attached to her arm. He asked to speak with the doctor.
In the doctor's office, they were welcomed warmly.
"Adams, you're welcome," said the doctor. "Do you know this lady?"
Adams replied, "I just met her outside, crying. I tried to console her and learned her sister was admitted here."
The doctor nodded. "Yes, she was brought in last weekend with typhoid fever. She's responding well to treatment—she'll be fine."
He turned to the young lady. "What's your name?"
"Mina," she replied.
"And you live nearby?"
"Yes, around the subway."
"Don't worry, Mina. Your sister will recover. Just take care of yourself and have some peace of mind."
She thanked him. That encounter was the beginning.
Adams paid the hospital bills and gave Mina some money for their upkeep. They exchanged numbers. A simple act of kindness grew into heartfelt conversations. Affection blossomed, infatuation warmed into romance, and soon, they were entangled in the magic of new love.
Adams kept visiting, calling, and checking on them. The bond deepened. Distance shrank. Secrets were shared. Their hearts aligned.
Love consumed their time—plans shifted, priorities changed. They shopped together, dressed better, spoke with more confidence, laughed louder. New clothes, new scents, matching jewellery, antic gestures. They wrote stories, took photos, and recorded dead memories. Adams met her family and won their hearts, one by one.
Then came the turning point.
One evening, Adams proposed marriage.
Mina looked away, and with a heavy heart, said, "I'm sorry. There's someone else—my elder brother's friend. He's like family. I love him. I love you too, but I can't disappoint him. We can remain friends if you'd like."
Adams was stunned. "For real?
What about the plans we made, the memories, the poems, the songs we shared? The dreams we planted together? How could you never mention this?"
"I didn't want to lose you," she said quietly, "or hurt your feelings."
"You just did," he replied.
She fell silent.
Adams agreed to remain friends, holding his pain with dignity. He stayed kind—perhaps even kinder.
One day, Mina invited Adams over. The house was empty. She dressed beautifully, glowing with grace and intent. Her fragrance filled the room. She peered through the window and saw Adams arrive—tall, handsome, dressed in white, his aura calm and collected.
She ran to greet him, smiling brightly. He was struck by her beauty.
They embraced.
Inside, they shared food, laughter, and deep emotions. Mina confessed her love and agreed to marry him.
The house was silent. The air, this was with longing. They kissed, emotions flaring. Urges clashed with restraint. Their bodies begged, but their hearts held back.
The devil whispered: "No one is watching..."
But love answered louder: "Wait for the right time."
They stopped. And they laughed. They decided to save their union for the sacred night of their marriage.
The days that followed felt like dreams tiptoeing into reality.
Mina and Adams grew closer—not just in affection, but in understanding. They spoke often about what could have been, and what now was. The tension of their past disappointment slowly gave way to the warmth of renewed trust. Yet, shadows remained.
One afternoon, as they walked hand in hand through a quiet park, Mina hesitated. "There's something I've not told you," she said, her voice barely above the breeze.
Adams looked at her. "What is it?"
She swallowed, staring at the ducks gliding across a pond. "The man I said I loved… my brother's friend. He came back."
Adams didn't flinch, but his steps slowed.
"He wants to marry me. My family thinks it's best," she continued. "They don't trust love that came from a hospital gate. They believe history matters more than chemistry. That safety is better than passion."
"And you?" Adams asked, his tone steady.
She turned to him, eyes wet but clear. "I trust what I feel when I'm with you. But I fear disappointing everyone else. I'm caught between what I want and what they expect."
Adams was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Mina, love is not a rescue mission. It's not a reward for kindness. I won't fight for a heart that isn't fully mine. But if it is—then come to me freely. Don't let guilt or pressure decide."
She nodded, visibly shaken by his clarity.
A week passed.
Adams heard nothing.
Then one evening, just as the sky wore the colors of dusk, Mina showed up at his doorstep with a small bag and trembling hands.
"My family won't speak to me," she whispered. "I chose you. Not because I owe you, but because I love you. And I want to build a story with you—not out of pity, but out of purpose."
Adams took her hands. "Then let's write our story. Carefully. Slowly. And with truth."
They embraced, and in that moment, two weary souls found peace—not in perfection, but in the promise of a future carved from honesty.