At the Threshold
Copyright© 2025 by Heel
Chapter 7: The Confession
It was late afternoon when the doorbell rang. Anna’s apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the heater. Her right leg still lay encased in pale plaster, rigid and unyielding, forcing her knee straight, heel pressed firmly into the molded insole. She leaned on her crutches, slender fingers gripping the handles, every movement careful, deliberate. The cast made her gait awkward and slow; each shift of weight sent a faint ache through her thigh and up her back.
She opened the door and froze. The delivery man. Rain clung to his jacket, small droplets sliding down, and his hands were clasped tightly, knuckles white. He hesitated for a moment, as though unsure whether to step closer. His eyes scanned the cast, the crutches, the delicate angles of her frame, before finally settling on her face. There was no judgment in his gaze, only a fragile, attentive hope.
“Hi,” he said, voice low and uneven. “I ... I hope I’m not bothering you.”
Anna swallowed hard, feeling the tightness in her chest. Her fingers clenched the doorframe, the cool wood grounding her. “You’re ... not bothering me,” she whispered, voice quiet, fragile, almost trembling.
He shifted from foot to foot, rain dripping faintly from his hair. “I ... I wanted to say something,” he continued, glancing down at her cast, then back to her eyes. “I know it might sound strange ... but the first time I saw you when I delivered your crutches ... I felt something. I think ... I fell in love.”
Anna’s chest tightened. She could feel the plaster pressing against her skin, heavy and unyielding, restricting every instinctive movement. Leaning on her crutches, she felt small and fragile, a thin figure balanced precariously on the narrow points of metal. Yet even as vulnerability coursed through her, warmth spread in her chest. In his gaze, she was not only fragile — she was seen, and that recognition carried weight far beyond her physical limitations.