Kiss the Stranger

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
My heart raced so fast my chest felt like it was pounding. My face burned, yet I couldn’t bring myself to look away.
“Uh, I—I…”

If he was going to lose his memory, I wished he’d at least forget this.
I cursed my bad luck, but nothing changed. His gaze remained fixed on my trembling lips, and I found myself staring back. Nervous, I stuck out my tongue and brushed my lips—he frowned. Remembering the wet warmth of his mouth, I blurted out in alarm:
“I—I was just giving you medicine!”

“Medicine?”
He asked, still staring at my lips. I hurried on.
“Yes, you had a fever, and you couldn’t swallow pills… I had no choice. I’m sorry.”

Was that really worth apologizing for? I realized too late, but the words were out. He finally lifted his gaze from my mouth. Our eyes met—and nothing improved. My heart still ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) pounded like a drum, my cheeks burned so red I could almost feel the heat. I knew I must look like a ripe tomato.
Yet he didn’t laugh—he seemed oddly dazed. Was he stunned that I’d kissed him for medicine? I felt wronged, but saying more would only worsen things, so I fell silent.
“Ah.”
As I closed my lips, he suddenly made a sound. At that moment his eyes sharpened, as if he’d come fully awake.

The air grew awkward. We both turned away and busied ourselves with other things. I hurried to straighten the bedding and stood up.
“G-good. You should sleep now. Think about everything again later… your brain needs rest, too.”
I said it and fled. He didn’t call me back. Only when I’d slipped outside out of his sight did I exhale in relief.

What on earth.
My flushed cheeks didn’t cool easily. I flapped my hands, trying to chase away the heat, replaying the moment in my mind. My intentions had been pure, but recalling it filled me with embarrassment. I’d never be able to do that again. So that’s how shame strikes without warning, I thought—when suddenly I realized another truth.

…it was my first kiss.

Then came another shock.
…With a man whose name I don’t even know.
And not only that: I’d attacked him for medicine while he was unconscious.

…My first kiss, like that.
With a total stranger.
I stood there, stunned, unable to move as the realization settled in.

I’d never been destined for kisses, anyway.
After some time, I busied myself, deliberately chopping small branches. No matter that he was a man—there’d been no contact. If I’d kissed someone before dying, at least that was something. Really, he was the unlucky one—kissed by a stranger without warning.
Crack. A hefty branch fell with a dull thud.

Still—not my first kiss, right?
He looked at least five years older than me. If not more. Surely married, with a wife, maybe two kids—no, three…or ten.
I let my imagination run wild, then slumped in resignation.
Yes, he must have family waiting for him.

At least he wasn’t alone like me. That thought brought back a hollow ache. No, I shook my head. Once you realize, you can’t go back. Better to let it lie, forever—ten years, twenty years, for all the days that follow.
A chilly breeze brushed my back. The sun above was blazing, yet I felt a shiver. I cleared my mind and resumed work. There was nothing else to think about. I’d deal with the rest later—tomorrow, the day after. No need to rush today.
As always, I set aside my thoughts and pressed on with the tasks at hand.

“Phew.”
Wiping sweat from my brow, I returned inside the hut. He was asleep again. His swarthy face looked slightly pale—maybe from bleeding. I decided to check his wounds and boiled water, preparing to sterilize bandages. Then a faint sound reached me. I turned to see him grimacing, uttering a soft moan. He seemed trapped in a nightmare—but I hesitated to wake him. Perhaps he was dreaming memories back; interrupting might do harm. I resolved to leave him be.

But the moaning continued, making indifference impossible. I moved busily as if oblivious, but after gathering the hot water, cloth, and disinfectant, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. Regretting my initial hesitation, I knelt beside him, set down the pot, and pressed my hand to his forehead—no fever. Was it a dream? I hesitated, then gently shook his shoulder.

“…Hey, it’s okay.”
I realized I had no name to call him by. He’d sleepwalk through this until his memory returned—calling him by no name felt wrong. My chest tightened. Biting my lip, I tried again:
“Wake up. You’re safe. It’s just a dream… breathe… that’s it, you’re doing fine.”

His eyelids remained closed, but the moaning subsided. His trembling stilled, and his breath evened. Encouraged, I murmured, “That’s it…” until he lulled into a calm sleep. I felt some relief.
Sweat-matted hair clung to his forehead; I peeled it back to see his frown ease. On impulse, I kissed his brow. As I pulled away, his crease relaxed. A smile slipped onto my lips.
I clasped his hand and stroked his hair—then a melody drifted in. It was a lullaby my mother sometimes hummed:

You brought me grief for the first time
Such deep wounds you gave me
Though you sleep coldly, heartless and cruel
In death’s slumber I will love only you
The world is empty
And I no longer wish to live…
(from Frauenliebe und Leben, Schumann)
I couldn’t help whispering the lines—then blushed. If he woke and asked about the song, I’d want to bury my face in the sand like an ostrich.

“Ahem.”
I cleared my throat to change the mood and checked his face. He looked more at ease than before. Gently, I released his hand and began inspecting his wounds. Carefully, so as not to wake him, I unwound the bandages—no new bleeding. Relieved, I cleaned around the wounds with the hot cloth, applied disinfectant, and rewrapped them with fresh linen. By the time I finished, the sun was dipping low.
Oh no.

I realized I’d done nothing else. Ghurab had increased my workload—there was no way I’d finish on time.
Panicking, I returned to my station and worked non-stop. I even lit the precious oil lamp before darkness fell. Tonight, I had to complete both past and present quotas. Every second counted. As I labored, dusk turned to night.
Oh no.
I snapped back to awareness and glanced behind me. He slept soundly, nightmare-free. I eased my aching limbs and crawled toward his bed. After wiping the last bead of sweat from his forehead, I checked his face—it looked more composed than anyone I’d ever seen. His body, his hands, all far beyond mine in size and refinement. His hardened palm enveloped my scarred, calloused hand briefly, and I yanked mine away, suddenly shy.

Get a grip—there’s work to do.
I hurried back and resumed weaving, pausing regularly to check his color and bandages. As I worked through the night, faint dawn light began to filter in.