"My leg is fine." I took a step back, a trace of wariness in my indifferent eyes. "Lucas, I don’t love you anymore, really... Please believe me..."
A flicker of pain crossed his eyes. "Well, is your illness not cured yet?"
"I’m cured." Afraid he might send me back in, I quickly explained.
He looked at me for a moment before sighing helplessly. "Let’s go home."
He thoughtfully opened the car door for me. I hesitated before limping into his car.
The car started slowly, heading towards home. I hung my head, nervously staring at my hands resting on my knees.
At a red light, Lucas suddenly turned to look at me. "Why aren’t you talking?"
No wonder he was puzzled. I used to be like a little sun around him, always cheerful and chatty. He would affectionately pat my head, teasing me for being unladylike. Seeing me so quiet today must have been a first for him.
I replied softly, "Nothing to say."
He reached out and pulled me closer, scrutinizing me up close. "Are you upset?"
"No." Loving him was my fault to begin with. He thought I was crazy, so it was normal for him to send me to a mental hospital.
"Then why don’t you talk to me?" He asked again.
I finally raised my face to meet his gaze. "Lucas, didn’t you send me to the mental hospital to cure me of my obsession with you? I’m cured now, you should be happy."
He was at a loss for words. His eyes grew deeper as he looked at me. Eventually, he whispered apologetically, "I’m sorry, Helena, I didn’t want this either."
He didn’t want this? It was him who sent me there.
"It’s okay, it’s all in the past." I lied.
In reality, the suffering I endured over the past three years would never fade, nor be forgotten. I just didn’t want to bring it up anymore.
Half an hour later, Lucas brought me back to our old home. Mom and dad were waiting for me in the living room. Dad’s eyes were filled with pity as he looked at my thin, haggard self. "Helena, you’ve suffered. It’s good to have you back."
Mom sat elegantly on the sofa, as aloof as ever. "Now that you’re back, come and eat."
She glanced at me indifferently before heading to the dining room. Despite the discomfort in my leg, I tried to walk steadily and naturally as I followed Dad’s warm invitation.
After three years, the four of us gathered around the same table. But the laughter and warmth of the past were gone. During the meal, I mentioned wanting to move back to my own home.