"Grandpa, I..." No words came out of my mouth. No words or excuses were coming into my mind.
My throat felt tight, like something was stuck inside.
I didn't turn around. My hands kept moving, stirring the soup even though it was ready. I just didn't know what else to do.
He sighed from behind. A deep, tired kind of sigh that made my heart sink a little.
"Elena," he called softly, his voice nothing like how it was on the phone earlier. This one… this one sounded worn out. Real.
"I know this is a lot. I should've told you before."
I didn't say anything. Didn't even breathe properly.
He took a few steps closer, and I could feel his presence now, as he stood beside me. "It wasn't supposed to go like this. But I didn't know what to do."
I finally turned around. My eyes met his, and I hated how watery mine felt. "But you knew I was coming here. You called me here, Grandpa."
He nodded slowly. "I did. Because you were the only one he might… respond to."
I stared at him as I was not able to understand why me. Though I am the one Dave responded to, we can do the sessions professionally in the presence of the doctor.
Moreover, taking care of him in his house felt more personal than simple help. "Can't anyone do this instead of me. What about his parents? Wouldn't they be worrying about his well-being?"
The question seemed valid to me. No matter how much Uncle Walter hated Dave's being an actor, the moment he would hear about Dave's accident, I am sure that he would make it his number one priority.
And Aunt Camila, she would light the whole world if she saw an inch of scratch on Dave. Both were his parents, so why was Grandpa not telling them the truth?
"I am afraid that's not the case." He admitted as his voice came as barely a whisper as if he wanted to keep it to himself.
I stared at him, not understanding what he meant. They were his parents, of course, they would be worried as hell for him, then why? Why was he hesitating so much to tell them the truth?
The questions and their assumptions started to cloud my senses. "Why not?" My tone almost came out as accusing. His body went stiff as if I pushed the wrong button. He did not meet my eyes, increasing my suspicion.
What was he hiding?
***
It was nighttime, and Grandpa and Linda were gone, leaving me and Davis behind in his apartment. Alone.
With the heavy dose of the medicine, he was already asleep, but I was far from being asleep. My eyes were burning with exhaustion, yet I was unable to rest.
The conversation between Grandpa and me left me with several unanswered questions.
I kept lying on the bed, twisting and turning.
The fan above was spinning lazily, making that same low humming sound, but it wasn't helping. The blanket felt too warm, the pillow too cold. Everything just felt… wrong.
I tried closing my eyes again, but it was useless. Grandpa's words just kept playing in my head. Over and over. Like my brain refused to shut up.
I kept thinking, why did he bring that up? Why now? What was he trying to tell me?
And why did it feel like he wasn't telling me everything?
I sat up, finally giving up on the whole idea of sleep. My head was pounding, and my heart had this weird heaviness.
Getting up from the bed, I put on the slippers. The coldness sent a shiver through my spine. Walking up to the entrance, I looked around, and my eyes fixated on his room.
Though I was trying hard not to go or even look in his direction, something was pushing me to do it.
In years, I never crossed the line. His room was the prohibited area where I could not go without his permission, which of course he did not give me.
And also because I never asked, but tonight was different.
He would not know as he was asleep. Completely knocked out from all the medications. And no one was here to stop me.
It was just me. Just… me and this weird feeling in my chest.
I stood near his door like an idiot, frozen. I don't even know what I was doing. I should've just gone back to bed, pulled the blanket over my head, and ignored everything.
But I didn't.
My hand moved on its own. Like I had no control over it.
I opened the door. Slowly. It made this tiny sound, that old creaky one, and I held my breath like I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't.
The room was dark but not pitch black. Some light from the corridor behind helped. I stepped in quietly, careful not to bump into anything.
His room was normal. Weirdly normal.Not what I imagined all these years.
I mean, he was a celebrity, right? A very popular one.
An actor with fans, interviews, people following him around, writing articles about what shampoo he uses and who he's dating.
So, I guess I thought his room would be… I don't know. Fancy? Stylish? Bigger maybe? Some dramatic wall art or expensive stuff lying around?
But no.
It was just… a room.
The walls were off-white, a little dull.
A small desk sat in the corner with papers and books stacked messily. His bed was kind of crumpled, the blanket half hanging off.
There was a shelf above the bed with random things—an old baseball cap, a cracked mug, and a few action figures.
Not the kind people display for aesthetics. These looked used. Like he actually played with them. Like a kid would.
It threw me off a bit.
I stood in the middle of the room, awkward. Like I had walked into someone's memories without permission.
My chest squeezed.