There are things I don't talk about. Not in therapy. Not even to Ms. Ama.
Like the way Mum collapsed in front of me in the kitchen when I was fourteen. Or how I still send emails to her old account, like it's some kind of portal to someplace safer. Somewhere she might still be.
Packing for college is supposed to be this big, cinematic turning point. A new Zuri — with volume. With colour. With something louder than grief.
But I can't even look a stranger in the eye without my chest knotting.
So I do what I always do. I write to Mum.
To Mum,
Hey Mum. I'm packing for college today. If you're listening, stay close. Just for today… I need you.
Love, Zuri.
Miss Ama calls from France to check in. Her driver's already on the way to take me to college.
He arrives with her usual charm, but I can handle it. I just nod to avoid too much talk.
I sit by the window, letting the breeze wash the knot in my stomach.
The town is quiet when we arrive. It's a Sunday — no overwhelming packs of campus girls, no noise. I picked the weekend on purpose.
Ms. Ama's already made sure I won't be staying in the dorms. She knows how I spiral. The nightmares wouldn't let me sleep anyway.
So I unpack slowly. Quietly. Like if I move too fast, something inside me might shatter.
I think about texting Ms. Ama, but I can't bring myself to hit send.
I take the kettle to heat some water for coffee—but I don't drink it.
The tremor of meeting new people is shaking me.
After that, I zip my hoodie halfway, grab my keys, and step out.
I need something louder than the stillness crawling under my skin.
---
Outside, the skyline is smeared with fading gold. The only noise: vendors calling over the evening traffic, and the distant hum of vehicles on the highway nearby.
A few blocks later, I spot a café tucked into a quiet corner. Warm lights spill through the windows—yellow and soft—like a memory I can't touch.
I hesitate at the doorway, caught between dread and craving.
Every seat is taken. I start to turn away. But the smell of espresso pulls me in like a hand on my wrist.
My eyes skim the room… until I see it: an empty seat.
Next to it — a guy. Rolled-up sleeves. Fingers lightly tracing the pages of a book.
I inch closer. Eyes flick to his face, then down to the cover.
My heart skips. He's reading The Art of War.
I don't know what makes my mouth move—maybe it's recognition. Maybe it's the loneliness talking.
But the words tumble out:
"Is that Sun Tzu?"
He looks up. A slow, genuine smile spreads across his face. Not wide. Not rushed. Just real. And there it is — a dimple. Small, like it sneaks in by accident.
"Yeah," he says, voice smooth like late-night radio. "You a fan?"
My pulse thuds in my throat. I clench my hands to keep from fidgeting. I'm making stupid moves on day one.
"Kind of," I say, pretending I'm not panicking. "Read it when I was sixteen."
He tilts his head. That almost-smile deepens.
"Didn't think anyone would notice."
Something about the way he says anyone—not just casual. Not flirty. Just curious. Focused. Present.
I should stop talking. But I don't.
"I guess, yeah," I shrug, trying too hard to look chill. My voice is lighter than I feel.
He raises a brow, amused. I hesitate. Then decide to bury the topic.
"Mind if I sit?"
He doesn't answer right away. Just watches me—for a beat longer than necessary.
Then gestures to the chair. "It's a free country."
I ease into the seat. Not because he invited me. But because I need to sit. To breathe. To pretend this isn't the weirdest beginning to my college life.
I glance past him toward the barista. "Americano. No sugar."
The words come out flat. Familiar. Like muscle memory. Like grief.
I keep my eyes down, pretending to check my phone. He flips a page.
I take a sip. Too hot. Too bitter.
I regret sitting. But I don't leave.
He glances at me once. Then again. Then back to his book.
I want to say something. But I don't. I don't want to make it more awkward than it already is.
Minutes pass like whispers.
Then—without looking up:
"I'm Haim."
I blink. Caught off guard by the softness in his tone.
"Zuri," I say.
"Black Americano. No sugar," he says, eyes on my cup. Then— "That order at this time?"
He says it like a test. Like he's checking how much I'll let him see. It makes something tighten in my chest.
"Some things are better bitter," I say, voice flat.
He watches me a second longer. He smiles—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Then:
"Respect."
His eyes drop back to the book.
But the word still hangs between us—like smoke that refuses to clear.
I should say something. Anything. But I don't know what tone fits this.
I glance at my cup—still half full. Still untouched.
A breath lodges in my chest. "I should be going," I say softly.
My voice doesn't sound like mine.
I push back the chair gently. Not in a rush. Just… surrendering.
And then—his hand brushes mine.
Fingers grazing my knuckle. Eyes lifted, uncertain. A crease between his brows like he wants to speak but doesn't trust the words to land right.
He lingers.
A breath. A beat. Stillness. A barely-there touch that somehow splits me wide open.
My breath catches. It roars in my veins.
But he lets go.
And I— I slide my hands into my hoodie pocket. Turn toward the door.
---
Outside, the air has cooled. The night holds me differently now—less like a threat, more like a question. I walk slow. Let the streetlights trail shadows at my feet.
The café's warmth lingers on my skin, but not deep enough to stay. And Haim's touch—brief, uncertain—still hums at the edge of memory.
Was it nothing? Or something trying to begin?
I don't know. I don't want to know. Not yet.
---
When I reach the gate, the silence is already waiting. It wraps around the building like mist.
I unlock the door.
Drop my keys. Fill the kettle. Switch it on without thinking.
The kettle hisses behind me. But I don't turn it off.
I'm still in the same clothes. Same hoodie. Same thoughts that won't sit still.
My phone buzzes once—battery warning. I plug it in, then scroll without looking. Notifications I don't want. Messages I won't read. Group chats I've already muted.
Then—on impulse—I open the call log.
Ms. Ama. Last seen: 2:03 AM (France time). She's hours behind. Or ahead. I don't know anymore.
I hit video call. The screen pulses. Once. Twice. Then switches to "Unavailable" in that clinical, empty font that feels like a closed door.
I stare at my reflection in the screen— Hollowed eyes. Hoodie pulled tight. And that kind of grief that doesn't cry—it just lingers.
I record a voice note instead. No idea what I'll say until I hear my own voice.
> "Hey… I just wanted to say I'm here. I made it. The place is quiet—like too quiet. I went out tonight. Sat across someone who didn't ask me a single shallow thing. I think that's why I stayed. Anyway, it's dumb. Just wanted to check in. Hope France is being kind t
o you."
I almost delete it. Almost.
But I hit send.
The kettle has gone silent now—long cooled.
I get up. Pour hot water over the same tea bag I used hours ago.
This time, I drink it.