Once, my paranoid love

As I took out an album from the drawer, I couldn’t help but smile warmly at the captured moments within. The images of my baby girl, Paulina, and Elena, my love, held a special place in my heart. The memories were both a solace and a reminder of what I had lost.

“Stupid man, as if I’m waiting for him,” I chuckled to myself, my gaze fixed on a picture of Elena. Even in a frozen frame, her beauty and warmth radiated.

I traced my fingers over the photographs, reliving the moments that seemed to come alive within the pages. In another lifetime, I might have held them in my arms again, but destiny had other plans.

A sudden knock on the door disrupted the quietude of the room.

“Sir, may I come in?” a maid’s voice asked.

I hesitated for a moment, and then replied, “Yes.”

The maid entered, carrying a tray with a cup of coffee.

“Here is your coffee, sir,” she said, approaching the table where the album lay open.

I observed her cautiously. It was a rare occurrence for anyone, except for Han and Senior Mina, to be granted access to my private space. Today, with Senior Mina absent from work, the maid seemed eager to seize the opportunity.

However, fate had a different script. In a moment of unfortunate clumsiness, she accidentally spilled the coffee onto one of the cherished pictures in the album. The liquid stained the image, threatening to obscure the captured smiles.

My heart sank as I watched the mishap unfold. The warmth that the memories had brought turned cold in an instant. The maid, realizing her mistake, apologized profusely, her warm smile replaced by anxiety.

“What the heck,” I barked aggressively at the maid who had just spilled coffee on the precious photograph. The room, once filled with the warmth of memories, now echoed with tension.

“I apologize, sir,” she stammered, her voice trembling with fear.

“I didn’t notice,” she added, attempting to rectify her mistake with a tissue.

“How dare you?”

I roared, my anger escalating. I couldn’t fathom the audacity of someone intruding into my personal space and carelessly damaging the cherished memories of Elena and Paulina.

“Don’t touch them with your filthy hands,” I snapped, my patience wearing thin.

“Get out of here! I don’t want you to be here,” I shouted, my frustration pouring out.

“Sir,” the maid pleaded, but before the situation could escalate further, Han appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Is everything OK, sir?” Han inquired, his presence bringing a temporary halt to the brewing chaos.

“Get that jerk out of here!” I seethed, my anger still palpable.

“Sir, please,” the maid begged, but Han took charge, directing her to leave.

“Come along with me. Who urged you to come here in the first place?”

Han demanded as he firmly guided her away from the room.

As they left, I took a deep breath, attempting to regain composure.

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Han’s POV

“Please don’t fire me, sir,” the maid pleaded desperately.

“You’re a moron, girl,” I retorted, trying to convey the seriousness of the situation.

“You’re lucky, sir, that I didn’t kill you,” I added, emphasizing the gravity of the offense committed.

“But it’s only a picture,” she argued, seemingly unaware of the emotional significance attached to the photographs.

“Shut up, it’s his wife and daughter’s pictures,” I explained, hoping to make her understand the magnitude of her mistake.

“But I never saw them,” she claimed, attempting to justify herself.

“It’s none of your concern. If you wish to stay, keep away from him,” I warned, making it clear that any further intrusion into Paul’s private space would not be tolerated.

“Yes, sir,” she replied meekly, acknowledging the severity of the situation.

As the maid left the room, I couldn’t help but wonder about Sir’s state of mind. The emotional turmoil he experienced was evident, and I couldn’t rule out the possibility of him struggling with mental health issues.

I sighed, recognizing the delicate nature of my role in his life. It was my responsibility to shield him from unnecessary disturbances, especially those that could trigger emotional distress.

**

In the quiet solitude of my room, I couldn’t shake off the lingering frustration caused by the maid’s intrusion. The sanctity of my family’s memories had been violated, and the unwelcome disturbance left a bitter taste in my mouth.

“Damn that jackass,” I muttered, my annoyance evident as I glanced at the now slightly damaged photo. The delicate balance of my emotions, carefully preserved in the images of my wife and daughter, had been disrupted.

Despite the unsettling incident, I couldn’t help but yearn for the warmth captured in those pictures.

“My baby,” I whispered, cradling the photo in my hands. The anger began to dissipate as I focused on the love emanating from those frozen moments.

With a sigh, I gently placed the photo back into the album, determined to preserve the essence of our shared moments.

“In two or three days, papa will come to see you,” I murmured, addressing the captured smiles frozen in time.

**

Derek’s POV.

I gently placed my hand on Elena’s cheek, a tender gesture that embodied the profound connection we had built over the years.

“You two have taken over my life,” I admitted softly, my gaze shifting between of Elena and Paulina.

Paul, a lingering presence in our lives, was an obstacle I couldn’t ignore. His promises echoed in my mind – assurances that he wouldn’t disrupt the family we had forged together.

“Elena, sometimes the two people who are truly best for each other have to overcome significant obstacles to be together,” I reflected, the weight of Paul’s influence hanging in the air.

With a tender kiss to Elena’s forehead, I silently acknowledged the resilience of our love.

Paul’s POV.

On the other side of the narrative, I sat on the bed, a poignant moment of reflection as I clutched a photo of Elena to my chest. The depth of my emotions was evident, a silent promise etched in my heart.

“I’m not going to let you go in my next life, Elena,” I whispered to the photograph, the intensity of my commitment reverberating in the quiet room.

“For you and our children, I will be a better man.”

**

Paul appeared at the doctor’s office the next morning. The psychiatrist, a perceptive figure, probed into the intricacies of Paul’s life, seeking to understand the layers beneath his composed exterior.

“Mr. Ethan, tell me about your life,” the psychiatrist inquired, inviting Paul to unravel the tapestry of his experiences.

“Everything is OK, doctor,” Paul responded, his smile attempting to mask the complexities that lingered beneath the surface.

The psychiatrist, skilled in navigating the nuances of human emotions, delved deeper.

“So, how do you talk to people politely?” he questioned, probing into the interpersonal dynamics that shaped Paul’s interactions.

“I tried,” Paul admitted, a subtle acknowledgment of the effort he invested in maintaining a semblance of normalcy.

The psychiatrist, undeterred, addressed a more sensitive topic.

“How about your rage problem, Ethan?” he asked, recognizing that emotions often played a pivotal role in shaping one’s mental state.

“It’s just fine,” Paul asserted, downplaying the significance of a struggle he might not fully comprehend.

The psychiatrist, adept at unraveling the layers of his patients’ emotions, pressed further.

“You’re implying that it’s decent but not great. Ethan, tell me why. Don’t you ever try to hide something from your doctor?”

Taking a deep breath, Paul opened up. “Last night, a maid slipped coffee on my baby.”

The psychiatrist, now attentive to the gravity of Paul’s revelation, sought clarification. “On your baby?” he inquired, recognizing the symbolic weight behind Paul’s words.

“Yes, I mean in the picture,” Paul clarified.

“Then what did you want to do?” the psychiatrist asked, acknowledging the gravity of the moment.

“At the moment, I wanted to kill her,” I confessed, the raw honesty of my words hanging in the air.

“Did you hurt her?” the psychiatrist inquired, delving into the aftermath of the incident.

“I didn’t do it. I tried to keep myself cool, Mr. Robin,” I replied, emphasizing the restraint I exercised in the face of provocation.

“Wonderful,” remarked the doctor, smiling at the resilience displayed in the midst of adversity.

“Doctor, am I doing well?” I asked, seeking affirmation and validation for my efforts.

“Yes,” said the psychiatrist, offering a reassurance that carried the weight of professional assessment.

“Ethan, you did a fantastic job. As a result of the progress you’ve made, we will travel to Spain,” he announced, presenting an opportunity for a positive change in scenery.

I hesitated for a moment before expressing a different preference.

“No, doctor.”

“Why? I’m an old hunk, but not a terrible companion,” he joked, attempting to lighten the mood.

“Actually, I’d want to go to London to meet my daughter,” I explained with a genuine smile, revealing the underlying motivation that fueled my desire for a specific destination.

The prospect of reconnecting with my daughter became a beacon of hope, a poignant reminder of the enduring ties that bound me to my past.