It was supposed to be another ordinary night. You were walking home, the glow of streetlights flickering against the pavement, your mind lost in the routine hum of the city. Then, out of the corner of your eye—you saw him.
At first, you thought it was just another stranger—a man in a wheelchair, bundled up in a hoodie and a bonnet, sitting beneath a dimly lit bus stop. But something about the way he quickly turned away, the way his shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear, sent a shock through your system. Your steps faltered. Your breath hitched. And then it hit you.
Zild.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. Your stomach twisted. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be gone—out of your life, just as he had so cruelly decided. The anger bubbled up, an old wound ripping open as you strode toward him.
“Zild,” your voice was sharp, demanding. He flinched but didn’t look at you.
You grabbed the armrest of his wheelchair and forced him to face you. That’s when you saw it—the hollowed-out cheeks, the sickly pale skin, the IV port peeking from under his sleeve. Your breath stilled.
“What the hell is this?” Your voice cracked.
Zild exhaled shakily, finally meeting your gaze. His eyes were tired, but there was something else there—something heavy, something raw. His lips parted, then shut again, as if he was struggling to find the right words. But there were none.
“You weren’t supposed to see me.” His voice was barely above a whisper, hoarse, fragile.
Your fist clenched. “And what, you thought I’d never find out? You thought I’d just move on and never question why the hell you left me like that?”
Zild swallowed hard. “That was the plan.”
His words landed like a punch to the gut. You shook your head, disbelief clouding your thoughts. “You don’t get to decide that for me, Zild. You don’t get to play god with my feelings.”
For the first time since you saw him, his lips twitched into something resembling a smile. Bitter. Faint. Defeated.
“If I did, I would’ve made you forget me entirely."