I heard it. That teasing voice of my long-lost friend.
The shame was a sudden heat on my face, but my gaze locked onto his wound. His voice turned muffled; I deliberately went deaf.
I should have turned around, but I rushed forward instead, killing the shame. My heart pounded faster with every step.
I gasped when I saw that the laparoscopy scar on Rafael's right abdomen was blistering red. The stitches were ruptured.
"Your wound…" My voice shook.
"This? It's fine. No need to fuss."
"What do you mean, fine?!" I yelled, grabbing a breath. "The suture ruptured. You need to get to the hospital now." My voice spiked with pure panic.
"It's fine… It's just the suture dissolution, not an open wound. And—"
"Even so! For God's sake, you're bleeding, Rafael! It's…" My voice rasped. "It's… is it because of me, isn't it?" I asked.
I bit my lips. The wound was small, just an inch. But a wound was still a wound. The rupture had to be from when he lifted me earlier.
