I knew he was asking about Sharon, so I hid my sadness away and replied, “She’s been sent to the funeral parlor.”
Although I did not witness her final moment, I had overheard the conversation of those who had. As she had fallen from such great height, their description of her final appearance was that she was crushed beyond recognition.
For a brief moment, I could even imagine it.
He nodded, an abnormally distant look in his eyes. When he looked at the soup I brought, he asked, “Do you only have soup?”
I froze, not used to his calmness after going through such tragedy. Then I nodded before shaking my head. “What do you want to eat? I’ll buy it right away.”
“It’s fine. I’ll take that.” He took the soup from me and began drinking it like he normally would. It was as though he had not just gone through a tragedy several hours ago.
His unusual reaction worried me, but I did not know how to console him. “What else do you want to eat? I can buy it for you.”
He paused his motion and shook his head. After a beat, his gaze landed on me. “Have you eaten?”
I stiffened, but shook my head. “I’m not hungry.”
He put down the bowl before he stood up and grabbed his jacket. Looking at me, he uttered, “Let’s go. Let’s grab a bite and a walk.”
As he dragged me out of the hospital, I stared at his towering figure, unable to spot anything different about him from the usual.
However, there was one thing that was different—his gaze. He had a murderous gaze, and that was something he never had. It was hatred—deep hatred.
I was shocked by it. Where did that come from?
After boarding the car, I ruminated for a while before suggesting, “Marcus, let’s go to Central Park. I’ll make whatever you want to eat at home.”
If we were to go somewhere crowded, I was sure that it would only make him even more upset.
His hands on the steering wheel visibly tensing, he glanced at me. “Why aren’t we going to the White residence?”
My mouth set in a hard line. “The White family has maids, and I won’t get to cook when I’m there.” Then, I tentatively asked, “You want to go back to there?”
After lowering his gaze for a second, he started driving in the direction of Central Park. “No.”
The hospital was not far from Central Park, so we soon returned. As it had been a long while since I came back here, the fridge was essentially empty.
It took me a second after peeking into the fridge before I said, “Give me a moment. I’m going to buy some things back from the supermarket downstairs.”
“I’ll come with you.”
With a faint smile, I shook my head. “It’s fine. I can go alone.”
He looked at me for a little longer. A silent agreement.
As it was already late, there were not many groceries in the supermarket. After picking some food that I knew how to prepare, I soon left.
When I returned to the house, I saw Marcus was no longer in the living room. After I placed my groceries in the kitchen, I went around to search for him.
The study room was where I found him, and he seemed like he was typing something into the computer.
When he saw me, he only looked at me and flatly replied, “You’re back.”
Nodding, I flashed him a smile. “I’m making pasta. It’ll be done in a while.”
The only answer he gave me was a quiet hum.
It was normal for me to overthink the situation, for his reactions would worry anyone else, too. He did not seem depressed or melancholic. It really was as if nothing had happened to him.
He hid his feelings so well that it seemed like Sharon had not died, and life was still going on as usual.
Once I was done with the pasta, I turned around, about to get him to eat. To my shock, he was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, with a gloomy look on his face.
Sweat covering my back from the shock, I shakily asked, “Marcus, what’s wrong?”
The gloomy look dissipated, and he asked, “Are you done with the pasta?”
I nodded, fear still lingering in my heart. After scooping a serving out from the pot, I placed the plate on the table.
As I watched him eat, I could not help but mumble worriedly, “Marcus, are you okay?”
He paused and lifted his head to look at me. “What?”
I shook my head, sensing him becoming distant from me. “Hurry up and eat. It won’t be nice to eat cold pasta.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not hungry?”
I gave him a small smile before shaking my head. “I’m not. Eat more.”
At that, he pursed his reply and fell silent.
As I watched him eat, I wondered if he tasted nothing of the pasta. It was as though he was only eating to fill his stomach.
After the meal, he sat on the couch, staring at the television that he did not turn on with a dark gaze.
At that moment, I felt as though I was reliving the moment when John found out about his father’s death. Back then, John’s eyes were filled with darkness. It was as if he had fallen into a black hole, determined to drag everyone into the void.
After keeping the plates, I sat down beside him and said, “Marcus, you have to keep going forward. Your mom wants you to have a bright future.”
He was silent for a moment. “You’re consoling me?”
I was at a loss for words.
After a while, I finally said, “It’s getting late. You should rest early. I’ll come around to deliver breakfast to you tomorrow. Put your work aside; you should rest at home for the next few days.”
