Three months had passed since then.

Two months ago, the girl had started therapy with Dr. Solloman, which brought tears of relief to both Gavin and me. He had even said that the girl was really making progress. She was already taking showers by herself, for example, but always with the shower on, and he always knocked on the door to ask if everything was okay. She also ate by herself now, without eagerly waiting for him to serve her.

However, despite these and other improvements, one thing hadn't disappeared yet: her silence. She still didn't say a single word, and we didn't know if it was just with us or with everyone, since Dr. Solloman never disclosed what happened in the sessions due to confidentiality. He just reassured us and said that everything was going well.

Despite walking through the corridors and rooms of the apartment without that lost and vacant look, though it still happened occasionally, another thing that remained evident was the terrible self-harm scars scattered over her small body. They were much better than before, but still noticeable. The one that bothered me the most and caused pain was a thin but unmistakable horizontal line at the base of her neck. I couldn't say if it was something she had done to herself or... Or. Gavin had never talked about it either, and I didn't have the courage to bring it up.

That night, Gavin had gone for an outdoor run and would be back in two hours. At least twice a week, he asked me to stay with her so he could exercise, and I did. In fact, I always made excuses to show up at the apartment. I wanted to be as close to her as possible.

As soon as he left, I went to the guest room, or rather, her room. I knocked on the door and greeted her with a hello.

The girl was wearing a blue floral dress that covered most of her body but ended in the middle of her thighs. She was lying on her stomach, propped up on a pillow. In her delicate, brown hands, an open book. Yes, now she read and wrote to pass the time. In fact, her notes always remained stored in a folder on top of the dresser. Gavin had told me that he bravely resisted the temptation to read them, and I congratulated him for that. The last thing we needed was to abuse the girl's trust.

As soon as she looked at me, I saw her dark, slightly slanted eyes shimmer with joy.

She was happy to see me. And I, of course, was ecstatic to see her.

I opened a satisfied smile that I quickly disguised. Despite being much taller than her (I measure 1.87m and she 1.54m, according to the measurements taken in her battery of tests), her expressions and actions easily affected me, and I refused to understand why.

I entered the graceful room and sat beside her at a respectful distance. Besides the issue of silence, her aversion to physical touch and proximity hadn't gone away yet.

"What's my favorite girl in the whole world reading?"

As soon as the sentence came out, I noticed what I had just said. Yes, it was common for me to use affectionate words with her, but now they sounded different. I looked at her, ready to apologize, but she just gave me a little smile and showed me the cover of the volume: a white tiger embossed on a blue background with the words "The Tiger's Curse."

"Seems good," I comment. She nods and points to a shelf next to the wardrobe.

Once we found out that she liked to read—a small "hint" from Dr. Solloman—Gavin made sure to buy volumes he thought would catch her attention. Now the shelf was packed with imposing titles, others more mysterious, but all proudly lined up and clean. And undoubtedly she was engrossed in reading. According to the reports I got from him, she devoured at least one of those books per week.

"I'll be in the living room if you need me, okay?"

She nods again and smiles again. This time, she lowers her head, almost as if she's embarrassed.

I only realize that I'm staring when she blinks her eyes at me, also making intense eye contact.

Time freezes outside.

My heart races, and I feel a strange warmth throughout my body. I want to move away, but at the same time, I want to stay there. It's as if I can see all the secrets and information she hides; as if her two windows to the soul are wide open and nothing can be veiled.

I feel a strong urge to hug her. I want to hold her hand and touch her face, caress her hair. It's as if I could just pick her up and kiss her delicately but intensely. Everything seems so clear yet so confusing. Fulfilling the desire pulsing in all my veins would not only be practical but certain. I would put all conflicting thoughts to the test and bet high. Without fear and without arrogance, however. I would be taking what was mine.

However, I know I can't.

She would either run away, or freeze inside herself, tensing her muscles and traveling to some kind of hell inside her head. It would be like spitting on all the progress of therapy. So I restrained myself with iron.

Not now. Not yet.

So I slowly get up and sever the connection. I breathe as normally as I can, noticing that for a few seconds, I was momentarily out of breath.

I can't look at her again; I need to regain my composure. So I leave the room and instead of going to the living room, I head to the bathroom and close the door. Obviously, I can't lock myself in there, since everything remains confiscated despite the positive results. I aim my reflection in the mirror. The pupils are dilated as if I had just looked directly at the sun.

I dare not acknowledge this emotion, sensation, whatever it is. I just wash my face and try to return to the standard line of reasoning.

However, this "whatever it is" has been around for a while. Do I really want to find out what it is?

As I turn off the tap and dry myself, I realize that this wasn't the question.

The million-dollar question was: what would I do about it?