A week had passed with no word from Yugh at the studio beyond his brief leave notice. Concern, laced with a thread of hurt, finally propelled Anisa to his doorstep one evening.🌅
She rang the bell, and the sound mingled with the faint, frantic cries of a baby from inside. The door swung open, revealing a Yugh she had never seen before. His hair was mussed, dark circles etched under his eyes, and a tiny, red-faced infant was bouncing nervously against his shoulder. A damp cloth was slung over the other shoulder, and the faint, sweet-sour scent of baby formula and powder hung in the air.
"Anisa," he said, surprise cutting through his obvious exhaustion. "Come in." 😲
Anisa stepped inside, her shock momentarily silencing her. The living room was a testament to chaos, a disassembled baby bottle on the coffee table, a stack of clean burp cloths, a small tub on the floor. The sophisticated, composed man she knew was gone, replaced by a flustered, tender caretaker.
"Yugh... what is all this? Whose baby?" she finally managed, her eyes wide. 🍼
"Come, sit," he said, gently shushing the baby as he guided Anisa to the only clear spot on the sofa. He told her everything, his voice low and steady amidst the baby's fussing. He spoke of the call, the orphanage, Asifa's fate, and the impossible emptiness he felt looking into the crib. "I just... couldn't leave him. He had nowhere else to go," he finished, his eyes meeting hers, seeking not approval, but perhaps understanding.
Anisa listened, her initial shock dissolving into a wave of awe and a profound, aching empathy. She watched as Yugh, with practiced clumsiness, tested a drop of formula on his wrist and finally settled the baby to feed, the cries subsiding into soft, contented gulps. In the quiet that followed, she saw not just a man who had saved her, but one who had chosen to save another, embracing a storm of responsibility out of pure, uncompromising compassion. 💓