Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Cure Is you: Kabanata 21 - Kabanata 30

°SERENA° “You just don’t get it, do you?” I asked, a bitter smile tugging at my lips, devoid of any warmth. No one ever does—and maybe that’s just how it’s meant to be. But knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less. The ache sat deep within me, sharp and unrelenting, a raw wound I couldn’t reach to heal. Adrian—of all people—had made this decision for me without hesitation, without so much as considering how it would unravel what little I had left to hold onto. Why is it that someone else always gets to decide what’s best for me? Why is it that my life, my choices, are never truly mine? It’s always the men in my life. First, my father in name, and now my husband in name. "Ah, what a similarity," I murmured bitterly, the words barely a whisper, but heavy with truth. The two most important men in anyone’s life—and yet, to them both, I’m nothing more than a tool. The tears I had so desperately tried to suppress betrayed me, slipping silently down my cheeks. My chest ti

°ADRIAN° “Ah, that’s it,” the doctor said, peeling away the last layer of white bandage from Serena’s arm. I watched silently from across the room, my arms crossed, face stoic. She sat still, her eyes filled with awe, fixed on the doctor’s hands as if the process required her full attention. When the last piece of gauze was removed, I caught a glimpse of the faint scar running along her skin. Proof of how well she could handle herself. Not that she’d admit it. For the past week, she’d been… quiet. Too quiet. No snark, no backtalk, no challenging every damn word I said. Just heading out in the mornings with Timothy, coming back in the late afternoons with him. She was behaving. Being good. And I should have felt relieved at that, but…I hated it. “It’s healing well,” the doctor said, snapping me out of my thoughts. He sounded so damn cheerful. “No more bandages needed. I’ll prescribe something for the occasional pain, but other than that, you’re good to go.” “Thank you,

°SERENA° It’s been quiet. Agonizingly quiet. I stand in the kitchen, stirring absentmindedly. I could just focus on cooking, mind my own business, but no—I have to steal glances, searching, wondering. Is he looking? Why do I care? I don’t know. My days follow a rhythm—wake up, make breakfast, leave lunch in the fridge, attend classes, come back, lounge around, make dinner, eat together, sleep. Rinse and repeat. Except lately, something’s changed. It’s been days since Adrian last taunted me, no sarcastic remarks, no smug observations. He’s unnervingly quiet, and I find myself worrying—not for my sanity, but his. The first real shock came when I was lounging on the couch, munching on my favorite chips, lost in some show. I started choking. A proper, full-on coughing fit. If I had died right there, it wouldn’t have surprised me. But guess what? Adrian got me water! The spoiled son of the richest man in the city got me water. I still haven’t recovered from the shock

°ADRIAN° "Oh, come on!" "If you keep yelling, Serena, I might actually regret not including a 'no shouting' clause in that contract of yours," I said, leaning against the wall for support. My voice was clipped, my expression unreadable—a facade I'd perfected over years of boardroom battles and personal disappointments. But none of that seemed to work in front of this woman. She stood in front of me, arms crossed as if she was about to single-handedly declare war. Her eyes, however, betrayed more than frustration—they gleamed with determination. Unyielding. Unwavering. But I'd faced worse opponents. Much worse. "Adrian," she snapped, her voice sharp but quieter this time, as though reining in her temper for my benefit—or hers. "You can't just decide to do this alone. You'll hurt yourself walking all by yourself. And no, I'm not cleaning up the mess when you do." Yeah, I’ve started walking. Not very fast, and definitely not steady, but movement nonetheless. Compared to th

°ADRIAN° The day began with a jolt—Timothy barged in and woke me up since I somehow managed to sleep through the entire morning. It’s unusual. I never miss a routine. I’ve always prided myself on being meticulous, yet today, for the first time in a while, I faltered. After a quick shower, I sat down for breakfast. As always, it was ready—courtesy of Miss Perfect. But it wasn’t the food that caught my attention; it was the note attached to the box. 'Eat.' That’s all it said, written in her annoyingly neat handwriting. The simplicity of it had me smirking. She’s mocking me. I know she is. It was written the same way I had told her to eat after she’d skipped dinner following that ridiculous card game fight. Yeah. That moment—her stubbornness, her flushed cheeks, the fire in her eyes—is burned into my memory. Something I’ll never forget. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Timothy struggling to hold back his laughter. He’s always been like this—steadfast, unwavering