do me wrong

“...the suspect, an eighteen-year-old teenager with a criminal record, finished recovering from his injuries sustained at the scene. Eyewitnesses report that furious civilians intervened to prevent him from harming anyone else.”

Fali leaned forward, elbows pressed to his knees, staring at the television as though sheer willpower could burn through the screen. The bluish light flickered across his face, highlighting the sharp tension in his jaw.

Mele sat beside him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Each word from the reporter’s mouth tightened the coil in her chest.

The image on the screen shifted - a blurry photo of the boy, face bruised and half-bandaged, a sterile hospital room in the background.

“A police investigation was conducted, and following an intensive interrogation, the motives behind the appalling attack have been revealed.”

Fali’s hand twitched.

“The boy claims that his family was killed when a fighter jet crashed into their home. He alone survived, having been at school at the time. The catch?” The reporter’s tone lowered, rehearsed and somber. “The pilot who crashed that aircraft had attended a performance by the Reaper’s Songstress just one day prior.”

Mele’s breath caught in her throat. Her hand rose to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. Fali, sensing her trembling, reached for the remote, but she caught his sleeve mid-motion.

Her touch was gentle but unyielding - and her eyes told him everything.
Don’t turn it off. I need to hear this.

The reporter continued, oblivious to the knife he twisted.

“According to the suspect’s statement, his grief and anger grew unchecked as the war continued. With nowhere to turn and consumed by superstition, he came to believe that the Songstress herself was cursed, that her very presence brought death. When an invitation reached him to attend her charity event for war victims, he saw it as divine irony. And revenge.”

Mele’s tears began to flow in silence, streaking her cheeks. Her entire body was trembling, shoulders rising and falling in quiet spasms. Fali’s heart broke just watching her.

“The strangest part,” the reporter continued, “is that both the victim and assailant were treated at the same hospital. In fact, only a few rooms apart. We can only be grateful that no further incident occurred.”

The report shifted tone, but neither of them moved.

“In lighter news, the Reaper’s Songstress has been discharged from hospital as of yesterday and was seen leaving with the Airborne Warrior. Their relationship was made public on the day of the event, and it is presumed the pair will remain out of sight for some time as they recover. We wish them both peace and healing.”

The next headline began to play, but the moment was already over. Mele nodded weakly, and Fali switched the television off. The silence that followed seemed impossibly heavy - the quiet hum of the room pressing down like a weight.

Fali set the remote down. Mele was trembling against him now, her body small and fragile. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her gently against his chest.

“Are you alright?” he whispered.

She nodded, but her breath hitched, and the words broke through sobs.
“I… I hate it. I hate the pain I’ve caused people…”

He shook his head firmly, his voice steady and low.
“No. None of this is your fault. You said it yourself once. It was superstition. That’s all.”

Her hands clenched weakly at his shirt.
“But… it still hurts,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Like… like a bullet wound you can’t see.”

He tightened his hold as she buried her face against his shoulder, muffling her sobs.

“It would’ve been better if I didn’t exist…” she whispered between gasps. “If I hadn’t gone into music…”

Fali froze. Then he moved - not out of anger, but conviction. He pushed her gently upright, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“No,” he said, voice firm but tender. “It would not be better. Not for the world, and not for me.”

Her breath trembled in her throat.

“Think of all the people you’ve helped. The ones who listened to your music and found hope. Think of the soldiers who smiled because of your voice. Think of how much light you’ve given to people who thought they’d never see any again.”

He softened his tone, one hand rising to brush her tear-streaked cheek.

“And think of me,” he murmured. “Where would I be if you didn’t exist?”

Her eyes widened slightly, shimmering under the dim lamp light. Then she nodded, and the tears came harder - but they were different this time. Softer. Grateful.

“You’re right,” she whispered. “I’m sorry…”

He shook his head and drew her close again, letting her melt into his embrace. Her sobs quieted, her breathing uneven but slowing, her heart pressed against his chest.

The world beyond their small, quiet home felt distant - like it belonged to someone else entirely. For now, there was only the rhythm of their breaths, the warmth of skin against skin, and the fragile sense that even if everything else fell apart, they could still hold each other together.