PEEL FRUITS
VIYANA SINCLAIR
I sat on the bed, my fingers loosely holding the bowl as I watched him from the corner of my eyes, sitting there quietly as he peeled the pomegranate with a strange kind of patience, his movements slow and careful, as if he had nothing else in the world to do except sit here and make sure every single seed was taken out properly.
“I don’t want it,” I said, my voice flat, trying to sound uninterested, even though my eyes kept drifting back to him without my permission.
“You should eat this,” he replied immediately, not even looking up, as if my refusal meant nothing, as if he had already decided for me.
What is wrong with this man?
A small irritation rose inside me, but beneath that— something else lingered.
Something I didn’t want to name.
Now he got to know that I have PTSD.
And I hated it.
I hated the thought that he might look at me differently now, that he might see me as someone broken, someone weak, someone who needed to be handled carefully.
I don’t want that.
I don’t need that.
Even after his tiring shift at the hospital, he still came back and sat here doing this—peeling fruits, forcing me to eat, watching over me like it was his responsibility.
He simply said I was malnourished.
That I needed nutrients.
I sighed softly, giving up on arguing as he finally handed me the bowl, and I took it from him, my fingers brushing against his for a brief second before I looked away quickly, focusing instead on the pomegranate seeds as I poked at them absentmindedly.
“Why are you doing all this?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual, as if the question didn’t carry any weight, as if I wasn’t actually waiting for the answer.
He didn’t hesitate.
“We are friends, right?” he asked.
My fingers stilled for a moment over the bowl.
I turned my face away, avoiding his gaze, staring down at the red seeds as if they were suddenly very interesting.
A small smile betrayed me before I could stop it, quietly forming on my lips like it had a mind of its own, and I quickly bit my cheek, trying to hide it, trying to push it away before he could notice.
“Yeah… we are friends,” I repeated softly, my voice steadier than my thoughts, as I picked up a handful of pomegranate seeds and pushed them into my mouth, as if keeping myself busy would somehow calm the strange flutter building inside my chest.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Am I going mad or what.
I chewed slowly, my gaze fixed anywhere but him, anywhere but the person sitting right beside me, because somehow even looking at him now felt different, felt heavier, felt like it might reveal something I wasn’t ready to face.
I kept chewing slowly, trying to act normal even though my thoughts were anything but.
“How was your day?” I asked casually.
He looked up at me, exhaling like the day had drained something out of him. “Very busy,” he said, his voice low, tired.
I watched him for a second.
“You might be tired… shall I make dinner?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
He shook his head quietly.
“Don’t treat me like a patient,” I said immediately, scrunching my face in protest. “I am a very healthy person.”
“Healthy people don’t faint,” he shot back, glaring at me.
I grinned shamelessly, popping another few seeds into my mouth as if his words didn’t land anywhere.
He shook his head in disbelief, looking away, his gaze settling somewhere far off, like he had drifted into his own thoughts again.
Silence stretched for a moment.
And then—
“So… did you forgive me now?” I asked, keeping my tone light, almost careless, even though something inside me tightened the moment I said it.
He looked at me, confused.
“For what?”
I swallowed slightly, my fingers tightening around the bowl.
“For forcing you into this marriage… and threatening you with your family’s lives,” I muttered, the words coming out slower this time, heavier, the guilt settling in my chest like something that had been waiting to be said for a long time.
He just looked at me.
“I forgot about it,” he said finally.
Then added, almost casually, “Thanks for reminding.”
“Did you forgive me or not?” I asked, this time not hiding the weight behind my words.
He looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly, sharper than before.
“Have you ever asked for forgiveness?”
My heart dropped instantly, like something inside me had been pulled down without warning, and before I could even control it, tears burned at the back of my eyes, rising for reasons I didn’t fully understand.
Yes… I never said sorry.
But why does it hurt now?
Why does he saying it feel like this?
My throat tightened painfully, as if something invisible was pressing against it, making it harder to breathe, harder to speak, harder to stay composed.
I blinked quickly, trying to push everything back, trying to act like this didn’t matter as much as it clearly did.
“If I say sorry… will you forgive me?” I asked, my voice quieter now, my eyes fixed on his face like I was searching for something—an answer, a reaction, anything that could steady me.
He leaned back against the chair, his posture relaxed in a way that felt almost distant.
“Why do you want me to forgive you?” he asked casually. “In a few months, we’re getting divorced anyway. You’ll go back to your normal life… you don’t have to suffer here in this small house, eating my bland food.”
“It’s not like we’re going to stay in touch for the rest of our lives,” he added, not even looking at me.
“Even after the divorce… we can be friends,” I said, the words slipping out almost instinctively, as if I was trying to hold onto something before it slipped away completely.
He let out a dry chuckle.
“Do we even have time for that?” he asked.
“You’ll get busy in your business world… and I’ll be stuck in my small one,” he said, his voice quiet, almost distant, like he had already accepted that future.
The words settled somewhere deep.
Because suddenly, the thought of leaving this place didn’t feel light anymore.
I hesitated for a moment before asking, “Will your family accept you… after you divorce me?”
“They won’t,” he said simply.
“Why?” I asked, my voice softer now.
He leaned back slightly, his gaze unfocused, like he wasn’t even looking at the room anymore.
“They started hating me so easily,” he muttered, his tone carrying something tired, something that had already been weighed down too many times. “And after all this… I don’t even know if I can look at them the same way I used to.”
He paused for a second.
Then added, almost under his breath, “Even if they come back… I think I’d still choose to be alone.”
“Won’t you feel lonely?” I asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” he muttered, his voice quieter than before, his gaze lifting and locking with mine in a way that felt too steady, too intense, and suddenly my stomach twisted as if a whole zoo had been set loose inside me all at once.
I couldn’t hold it.
I looked away.
“You should miss me,” I said, forcing the words out as I continued chewing, pretending like it was just another one of my usual careless lines, like it didn’t carry anything real beneath it.
“Is that an order?” he asked, his tone laced with that familiar dry amusement.
I turned to him again, this time holding his gaze, trying to appear serious even though my heart refused to stay calm.
“Yes,” I said firmly. “You should miss me.”
For a second, he just looked at me and then, he chuckled.
My heart started racing again, louder this time, faster, like it had completely forgotten how to behave, and I sat there trying to control it, trying to steady my breathing, trying to act like none of this was affecting me when clearly it was.
“What exactly will I miss about you?” he asked, his tone almost casual, as if he genuinely couldn’t find a reason, as if there was nothing worth holding onto.
That stung a little.
But I didn’t show it.
“You’ll miss me annoying you,” I said, lifting my chin slightly, pretending like that was more than enough.
“At least you’re aware that you’re annoying,” he breathed out, shaking his head faintly.
“I’ve been annoying since birth,” I replied casually, shrugging like it was something I carried with pride. “Inherited trait… can’t do anything about it.”
He let out a quiet sigh, but there was something softer in it this time, something that didn’t sound like irritation anymore.
“You’ll miss buying me clothes,” I said, a grin spreading across my face as I leaned back slightly, completely satisfied with my own logic.
He rolled his eyes instantly, shooting me a glare that carried more familiarity than actual anger.
“I am such an entertainment,” I continued shamelessly, flipping another few seeds into my mouth. “People always feel happy when they are with me.”
“I feel irritated when I’m with you,” he replied without hesitation, completely dismissing my statement.
I froze for a second.
Then frowned deeply.
“You are not a human,” I said, scowling at him like he had personally offended my entire existence.
He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head as if he had already given up on arguing with me.
“My dear friend,” I called softly.
He just hummed in response, not even looking up.
“What if I fall in love with you?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it, my voice unusually genuine, almost confused—like I wasn’t even sure why I was asking it.
He froze.
Completely still.
And then slowly, he turned his head and looked at me, his eyes searching my face as if trying to figure out whether I was joking or serious.
“Why do you always ask the most stupid questions?” he said finally, breaking the silence.
“Answer me,” I insisted, my tone firmer this time, my gaze not leaving him.
“You won’t fall in love with me,” he said, like it was a fact, like it wasn’t even something worth thinking about.
“Why?” I asked immediately.
He let out a quiet breath and pointed at himself.
“Do I look like someone people fall in love with?”
Something in my chest twisted at the way he said it.
Like he had already accepted that about himself.
“Why are you talking so low about yourself?” I asked, my voice softer now, my brows pulling together slightly as I looked at him.
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he leaned back a little, his gaze drifting away from me as if the question itself was too unnecessary to respond to.
“Because that’s the truth,” he muttered.
“You think people only fall in love for looks?” I asked, watching him carefully.
“No,” he answered without hesitation.
“There are people who fall in love for someone’s character…” he continued, his gaze drifting away for a moment before returning, quieter now, “but I don’t think anyone would fall for mine.”
“Why?” I asked softly.
He let out a small breath, like the answer was obvious to him.
“Because I’m a bad guy—”
“No, you are not.”
The words slipped out of me before I could stop them, sharp and immediate, carrying more certainty than I had intended.
He looked at me instantly.
His gaze locking with mine.
And this time—
I didn’t look away.
My breath hitched slightly, caught somewhere between my chest and my throat, as I held his gaze, feeling the weight of that moment settle between us, quiet yet overwhelming.
“You’re not a bad person,” I said again, softer this time, but steadier, my voice carrying a truth I hadn’t fully realized until now. “A bad person wouldn’t sit and peel fruits for someone who forced him into a marriage."
My heart started racing again, louder, heavier, as if it was trying to tell me something I wasn’t ready to hear.
Oh my god. Please, I don't want to feel anything.