There are things I never 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 a turning point. A new Zuri — louder, brighter, with more than just grief.
But I can't even look a stranger in the eye without my chest knotting.
It's been a long time since I talked freely — to anyone but Ms. Ama. Just the two of us, since she adopted me. And even with her, some silences were too heavy to break.
Now she's in France. And I'm here.
The house is half-packed, half-undone. I've folded and unfolded the same clothes for hours. Nothing feels ready. Least of all me.
So I do the only thing that ever 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 it's going nowhere. But still — it makes something in my chest loosen.
I stand, brush off my jeans, and finish packing in quiet.
The phone rings. Ms. Ama. Calling from France to check in.
Her driver's already on the way.
He arrives, all charm and sunshine. But I can't handle light right now. So I just nod, quiet.
After loading my stuff, I sit by the window letting the breeze wash the knot in my stomach.
Eastshore Law School is ten hours from here. Apparently, that's the distance grief needs to turn into ambition. If only it worked like that.
Trees blur past — tall, brushstrokes of green — and somewhere between here and there, I try to breathe.
The town is quiet when we arrive.
Shops closed. A few boda bodas parked in the shade.
I chose the weekend on purpose — didn't want to run into the college girlies just yet.
Ms. Ama already made sure I won't be staying in the dorms.
She knows how I spiral. The nightmares wouldn't let me sleep anyway.
The gate clicks shut behind us.
The house is small. Clean. The kind of quiet that feels arranged.
Inside, light spills through wide windows and brushes over things I didn't expect —
a photo of Mum and me in the kitchen, mid-laugh.
One of me and Ms. Ama, wind in our hair by the sea.
And another — just me. Graduation cap too big, smile trying to be sure.
She placed them here on purpose. A soft kind of welcome.
Like she knew I'd need something to hold onto.
I unpack slowly. Quietly. Like if I move too fast, something inside me might shatter.
I think about texting her. But I can't bring myself to hit send.
I fill the kettle and set it to boil.
The sound steadies me — just barely.
I reach for the coffee, then stop.
I don't want it. I just needed the motion.
The thought of meeting new people is already shaking something loose in me.
I zip my hoodie halfway. Grab my keys. Step out.
The silence inside had started to feel too tight. I need something louder than the stillness crawling under my skin.
Outside, the skyline is smeared with fading gold. The only noise comes from vendors calling over the evening traffic and the distant hum of cars on the highway nearby.
A few blocks later, I spot a café tucked into a quiet corner, warm light spilling through its windows. I move closer and pause at the doorway, caught between dread and craving.
I glance around — no empty seats. I start to turn away, but the smell of espresso pulls me in.
I scan the room once more —
And then I see it. One empty seat.
Next to it: a man with sleeves casually rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. His fingers lightly trace the pages of a book.
I inch closer. My eyes flick to his face, then down to the cover.
My heart skips. He's reading The Art of War.
I don't know if it's recognition or loneliness that makes my mouth move, 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, 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.
"That's unexpected."
I really don't have to talk past here.
I try to bury the topic.
I should stop talking.
But I don't.
"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 and close my eyes.
To breathe.
To pretend this isn't the weirdest beginning to my college life.
After a moment, 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 he looks up and breaks the silence:
"I'm Haim."
I blink, caught off guard.
His voice comes out softer, but cautious.
"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.
Smiles—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Then:
"Respect."
His eyes drop back to the book.
The word hangs between us like smoke.
I search for something to say, but nothing fits the mood—no tone feels right.
I glance at my cup—still half full, still untouched.
A breath catches in my chest. I just want to leave.
"I should be going," I say, softly. My voice feels unfamiliar now.
I push back the chair gently—
but his hand brushes mine.
Fingers graze my knuckle.
Eyes lift, 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.
And then—he lets go.
I face away from him, heat curling along my spine as I slide my hands into my hoodie pocket.
I almost stumble at the doorway—but I hold steady.
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 drag 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.
When I reach the gate, the silence is already waiting.
It wraps around the building like mist.
I unlock the door.
Drop my keys.
Switch the kettle on without thinking.
The kettle hisses behind me. But I don't turn it off.
My phone buzzes once—low battery.
I plug it in. 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 to you."
I almost delete it.
Almost.
But I hit send.
The kettle has gone silent now.
Water cooling by the second.
I get up.
Pour hot water over the same teabag I meant to use hours ago.
Steam curls from the mug as I carry it to the window.
Outside, the streetlights blink like they're tired too. A cat slinks across the fence. Somewhere far off, someone laughs — quick and sharp, like joy isn't hard to find.
I take a sip. The tea's weak. But warm.
In the stillness, I pull the blanket off the back of the couch and wrap it around my shoulders. The cup cradled in both hands now.
My phone buzzes once.
It's not Ms. Ama.
It's not anyone I know.
Just a promo text.
Still, it breaks the hush.
I switch the phone to silent, face down.
Then I close my eyes.