Take a note before you take my flowers
Journal Entry One — Found in the Front Pocket of the Story
Hey,
Before you meet my Romeo,
meet me.
I know I was promising a good person.
But I've learned that good doesn't always arrive gently.
And if you're here expecting a love story,
you should know something first:
I was still learning how to show up.
Still trying to remember what softness felt like.
Still figuring out how not to run
when someone tried to stay.
So before the romance—
before the names and the chapters and the moments—
before you hold the rest of me in your hands—
let me be honest:
Chapter One
There are things I never talk about.
Not with therapists.
Not even with Ms. Ama.
Like the way Mum collapsed in the kitchen when I was fourteen and died.
Or how I still send emails to her account, like it's a portal — somewhere she might still be.
Packing for Eastshore Law School is supposed to be this big turning point.
A new Zuri with volume and colours.
A Zuri with something more than grief.
But even now, I can't meet a stranger's gaze without tightening inside.
I don't know how I'll deal with new people who don't know I send texts to a dead mother.
It's been four years since I've spoken freely to anyone.
Even with Ms. Ama, I have so many unsent drafts.
It's just been the two of us since she took me in.
She's always been the best.
And now that she's moved to France, the whole place feels empty.
The house is half-packed, half-forgotten.
I've folded and unfolded the same pair of jeans four times.
At some point, I found myself staring at the tag like it might explain something.
98% cotton. 2% elastane. Made in Kenya.
Nothing useful. Just a detail to hold while everything else slips.
After too long standing, sitting, doing nothing that helps,
I do the only thing that steadies me.
I write to Mum:
Hey Mum,
I'm packing for college today. If you're listening, stay close. Just for today. I need you.
Love,
Zuri.
I hit send, knowing full well it's going nowhere — but still, something in my chest loosens.
I brush off my jeans and keep moving.
After a short while, Ms. Ama calls to say the driver is on the way. I check on the most important things to take and leave the rest for Hilda, her house manager, to handle.
A few minutes later, the driver arrives — all charm and sunlight — but I can't meet light right now.
I nod quietly, just to avoid being pushed. Words are too much.
The school is ten hours away.
Apparently, that's where grief should end and ambition should begin — but grief doesn't follow roadmaps.
Trees blur past — tall, green brushstrokes smeared by motion.
I keep my eyes fixed on the road, staring at nothing.
Somewhere between here and there, I try to breathe — but I know it won't hold once we arrive.
The town is hushed when we arrive.
From afar, the beach shimmers like it doesn't know how to mourn.
Shops are shuttered, and only a few boda bodas idle in the shade.
Ms. Ama and I chose this weekend on purpose.
So I wouldn't have to bump into the campus girlies — not yet.
She arranged a house off-campus.
She knows how I spiral.
The gate clicks shut behind us. Instantly, the loneliness creeps back in. I'm not sure I'll like the new house with Ms. Ama gone—but I have to. It's school that brought me here, after all.
I walk beside the driver, my hand brushing the cream wall as we head to the door.
The house is bigger than I expected. The driver switches on the lights—he's been here before, familiar with the space. And that's when I see it:
A photo of Mum and me in the kitchen, caught mid-laugh. Another—me and Ms. Ama, wind tugging at our hair by the sea. And one more: just me. Graduation cap too big. Smile uncertain, but trying.
She placed them here on purpose. A quiet kind of welcome. Like she knew I'd need to hold onto something soft.
The driver says his goodbye and leaves. He's one of the best — quiet, like I need. He never speaks unless I start it, and that's what I like about him.
After a short while, I consider texting Ms. Ama.
But my fingers hesitate.
Then fall away.
The thought of meeting new people already stirs something raw.
I stare out the window, wondering if people will know I'm stitched together.
Eventually, I fill the kettle and set it to boil.
The sound barely soothes me.
I reach for the coffee, then stop.
Maybe I just needed the motion — the small act of pretending things are normal.
I zip my hoodie halfway. Pocket the keys.
Step outside.
I need something more than the quiet breaking my chest.
The air is thick with the quiet of early dusk.
Vendors call faintly over the low hum of traffic.
The skyline wears a soft, amber bruise.
I walk slowly, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands.
Each step feels both too loud and too soft on the uneven pavement.
A gust of wind lifts the edge of my scarf. I press it back down, steadying myself.
A few blocks away, I spot a café —
Its golden glow spilling through the windows like something warm is waiting.
I cross the street, dodging a cyclist,
And pause outside the door.
My fingers hover over the handle.
I'm caught between ache and craving.
Inside, it's low light and chatter.
No empty tables.
I shift back, almost turning —
But then the smell of espresso curls into my ribs,
And hooks me mid-step.
I scan the room again — one last time — and spot an empty seat.
It's tucked into a corner, half in shadow, beside a man with warm brown skin and a stillness that feels practiced.
His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, revealing lean forearms, and he's so focused on the book in his hands, he doesn't even blink.
His fingers move slowly across the cover — not to flip the page, not to fidget — just tracing it, like it's something sacred.
Like he's reading it with his skin.
I drift toward him without deciding to.
Each step feels too loud. The soles of my sneakers scuff against the tile.
I steal a glance at his face — calm, unreadable — then at the book.
When I'm close enough to see the title, I freeze.
The Art of War.
My favorite. The copy I first read had a torn spine and margin notes in my mum's handwriting.
I don't know if it's recognition or loneliness that makes me speak —
But the words fall out like a breath I've been holding too long:
"Is that… Sun Tzu?"
He looks up.
Unhurried. Steady.
His gaze holds mine — not invasive, just present.
Then a smile. Soft. Unforced. The kind that forms when someone isn't trying to impress you.
A dimple appears, brief and unassuming.
"Yeah," he says, voice smooth like late-night radio. "You a fan?"
I press my hands together to quiet the nervous twitch.
"Kind of. Read it when I was sixteen."
That makes him tilt his head. Something in his smile deepens, softens.
"That's unexpected."
I shift my weight, already sensing the edges of a conversation I'm not ready for.
So I change course.
"Mind if I sit?"
He watches me for a second — not in judgment, just in consideration.
Then gestures with a small nod.
"It's a free country."
I look at him for a second — annoyed or amused, I'm not sure. Then I slide into the seat.
A barista approaches, and I speak before he can open his mouth.
"Americano. No sugar, please."
The words come out like habit. Like armor. But that's what they are.
He's still reading but I feel his glance slide toward me. Not obvious. Not heavy. Just there.
Maybe I'm being dramatic. Or maybe I'm seen.
I take the first sip. It burns my tongue, too hot and bitter — exactly the way I wanted it. Still, it tastes different from Nairobi's. Maybe the water here has a longer memory.
Silence stretches between us, and I pray it stays. Words might ruin what little is left of this night.
But after a while, he closes the book and looks at me — a look that's half-brief, half-curious. And then:
"I'm Haim."
"Zuri," I say, quietly.
His eyes drop to my coffee.
"Black Americano. No sugar? At this time?"
I should ignore him.
I should let the silence hold.
But the question pokes something raw.
I meet his gaze—not sharp, just steady.
"Some things are better bitter."
The words land like a period.
Not a punchline. Not an opening.
Just fact.
He doesn't flinch.
Doesn't laugh.
Just nods.
"Respect," he says, quieter now.
His eyes fall back to his book.
But the moment feels unsettled.
Like I threw down a stone and expected silence —
and instead heard an echo I wasn't ready for.
I wrap my fingers tighter around the cup.
The bitterness sits on my tongue,
but it's not the coffee I'm reacting to.
Why did I say it like that?
Why does my voice always cut when I mean to protect?
Time passes.
I watch my half-drunk coffee grow cold.
I wonder why I always choose solitude,
even when something warm sits right across from me.
I glance at him. Then at the table.
My mouth opens, unsure.
"I should go."
It comes out softly.
My voice doesn't sound like mine.
I start to rise —
And then his hand brushes mine.
Barely.
But enough.
His fingers touch the edge of my wrist.
His pinky rests lightly on my knuckles —
like a thought he isn't sure he's allowed to have.
Our eyes meet.
Uncertain.
Searching.
He doesn't speak.
Just looks —
like maybe he would,
if he trusted the words not to ruin it.
And then, slowly,
he lets go.
I walk out.
The night is cooler now.
Quieter.
But not empty.
Back inside, the silence greets me like it's been waiting all along.
I pause by the door, staring at the picture —
Mom, Ms. Ama, and me.
A happy snapshot that makes me feel like the ground should swallow me whole.
I drop the keys.
Heat the same water I already heated earlier —
Like I'm trying to replay comfort.
My phone buzzes inside my hoodie.
I check —
Just a low battery warning.
I plug it in.
The kettle hums behind me — that soft, lonely melody I suddenly need.
I scroll through the noise I don't want.
Then, on instinct, I open the call log.
Ms. Ama.
Last seen: 2:03 AM.
I try a video call.
It rings.
Once.
Twice.
Then: Unavailable.
The black screen reflects me —
Eyes rimmed with sleeplessness.
Hoodie drawn tight.
Grief, with no tears left to offer.
I record a voice note:
"Hey… I made it.
The house is too quiet.
I went out tonight. Sat across someone who didn't ask me anything shallow.
I think that's why I stayed… but it was awkward too.
I kept brushing off anything he'd say — just to avoid… I don't even know what.
Anyway… I was just checking on you.
Hope France is being kind to you."
I hover over delete.
Almost.
But instead, I hit send.
The kettle has already hissed.
I turn to it, dip the same coffee I'd meant to drink earlier.
I know I won't drink it — but that's the ritual.
The one I know best.
I cradle the mug.
Pull the blanket from the couch.
Wrap it around my shoulders like a memory I can't put down.
I sit like that for a while — doing nothing.
Just breathing.
Or trying to.
Then I set the mug down,
Set an alarm,
And curl up on the couch.