What We Were Never Meant to Be

CHAPTER FOUR — THE PHOTOGRAPH

My mother did not shout.

That was how I knew I was in trouble.

She stood in the middle of the living room with the photograph in her hand, staring at it as though it had personally offended her.

My father sat behind her, silent.

The television was on, but the volume had been turned all the way down.

For a few seconds, nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

Then my mother lifted the photograph.

“Who is this girl?”

My eyes dropped to it again.

Maya.

Her hand was wrapped around mine.

It was such an innocent photograph.

That was the worst part.

There was nothing scandalous about it. No kiss. No embrace. Nothing that could prove what I felt.

Just two girls holding hands.

But my mother wasn’t looking at the photograph like a mother looking at her daughter.

She was looking at it like a woman trying to calculate how much damage had already been done.

“I asked you a question, Eleena.”

“She’s my friend.”

My mother’s expression tightened.

“Your friend?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of friend holds your hand like that?”

I swallowed.

“The normal kind?”

My father finally looked up.

“Watch your tone.”

I immediately lowered my eyes.

“Sorry, Daddy.”

My mother turned the photograph over.

There was nothing on the back.

She looked at it again.

“Who sent this?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

She laughed once, but there was no humour in it.

“Interesting.”

I knew that tone.

My mother had already decided there was something I wasn’t telling her.

And maybe there was.

But I couldn’t tell her everything.

Not when I barely understood it myself.

⸻

The next morning, I woke up to three missed calls from Maya.

I stared at her name on my screen.

Then I saw her message.

Maya:

Are you okay?

Another message came.

Maya:

You left so suddenly yesterday.

Then:

Maya:

Eleena?

My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

I wanted to tell her.

I wanted to tell her that someone had taken a picture of us.

That my mother had it.

That she had asked who Maya was.

That for the first time, the thing between us had crossed the invisible boundary between university and home.

But before I could type anything, another notification appeared.

Mum:

Come downstairs.

My stomach dropped.

⸻

My mother was already dressed for work when I came down.

She was holding her phone.

“Do you know a girl called Sarah?”

I frowned.

“Sarah who?”

“Sarah Bonnie.”

My heart stopped.

Sarah.

Of course.

I hadn’t thought about her in years.

Sarah had been around since we were children.

Her mother and mine were close friends from church. We had attended the same Sunday school, the same youth programmes, the same church picnics.

Sarah was the kind of girl my mother loved.

Quiet.

Respectful.

Always smiling.

Always dressed appropriately.

Always saying the right thing.

When we were younger, Sarah and I had been inseparable.

Until university.

Until Maya.

Until everything changed.

Sarah had gone to a different university, but somehow we still ended up on the same campus.

She had seen Maya before.

She had seen me with Maya.

At first, I hadn’t thought anything of it.

Sarah had even joked about her.

“So that’s the famous Maya?”

I had laughed.

“What famous Maya?”

“The girl you’re always with.”

I remember rolling my eyes.

“She’s just my friend.”

Sarah had smiled.

“Sure.”

I hadn’t understood the look in her eyes then.

Now I did.

My mother placed her phone on the table.

“Sarah sent this to me.”

My chest tightened.

“What?”

“She said she thought I should know.”

I stared at my mother.

“Why would she do that?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

I couldn’t answer.

Because suddenly, the photograph made sense.

Sarah had taken it.

She must have been there that afternoon.

She must have seen Maya hold my hand.

And she must have followed us long enough to take the picture without us noticing.

But why?

My mother watched my face.

“You know Sarah.”

“Yes.”

“You grew up together.”

“Yes.”

“She says she has been seeing you and this girl together for weeks.”

I looked away.

My mother continued.

“She says people on campus are talking.”

My stomach twisted.

“People talk about everything.”

“This is different.”

“Why?”

“Because now people are talking about my daughter.”

There it was.

Not you.

Not what you’re going through.

My daughter.

Her daughter.

Her reputation.

Her family.

Her church.

Everything except me.

⸻

By Sunday, the photograph had become a story.

Not just at home.

At church.

My mother received messages from women I had never even spoken to.

Someone had apparently mentioned it during a women’s fellowship meeting.

Another person had asked my mother if I was “having problems at university.”

Someone else had apparently said they had always noticed that I was “too close” to Maya.

The rumours were growing.

And my mother was drowning in them.

I saw it happening.

She stopped laughing at breakfast.

She spent longer on her phone.

She started asking when I would be home before I even left the house.

She wanted to know who I was with.

Where I was.

When I would return.

And every time my phone lit up, her eyes moved towards it.

Especially when Maya’s name appeared.

Then, one evening, my mother walked into my room without knocking.

I was sitting on my bed.

Maya had just sent me a voice note.

I hadn’t even pressed play.

My mother saw her name.

She stopped.

“Maya.”

I froze.

My mother closed the door behind her.

“We need to talk.”

I knew then.

This wasn’t going to be a conversation.

It was an interrogation.

She sat opposite me.

For a moment, she simply looked at me.

Then she said quietly,

“I am tired.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I am tired of people calling me.”

Silence.

“I am tired of women at church asking me questions.”

My throat tightened.

“I am tired of people telling me things about my own daughter before my own daughter tells me.”

“Mum—”

“No.”

Her voice cracked.

“I have defended you.”

I looked at her.

“I have told people they were misunderstanding you. I told them you were focused on school. I told them you were a good girl.”

The last words came out differently.

A good girl.

Like it was something I had failed to remain.

She leaned forward.

“So I’m going to ask you one last time.”

My heart pounded.

“Who is Maya?”

I stared at her.

“She’s my friend.”

My mother shook her head.

“No.”

I looked down.

“She is.”

“Then why are people saying otherwise?”

“People lie.”

“Sarah?”

I looked up.

My mother was watching me carefully.

“Sarah says you are always together.”

“She’s my project partner.”

“She says you hold hands.”

I said nothing.

“She says Maya looks at you differently.”

My heart started beating faster.

“And she says,” my mother continued, “that you look at her the same way.”

I felt my eyes burn.

“She’s wrong.”

My mother studied my face.

“Are you sure?”

I forced myself to nod.

“Yes.”

The word hurt.

It hurt more than I expected.

Because Maya had looked at me like I was something worth protecting.

Like I was someone worth choosing.

And now I was sitting in my room, looking at my mother, pretending that none of it meant anything.

My mother picked up the photograph from the table beside her.

She held it between us.

“Then tell me the truth, Eleena.”

I looked at Maya’s hand around mine.

I remembered the library.

Her fingers brushing mine.

You don’t have to be ashamed of being close to me.

I remembered the way she had said it.

So certain.

So fearless.

I closed my eyes.

Then I opened them.

“She means nothing.”

My mother’s face softened slightly.

“She is just a friend.”

I forced the words out.

“There is nothing between us.”

My mother nodded slowly.

“Good.”

One word.

That was all.

Good.

She stood and walked towards the door.

But before she opened it, she stopped.

“Because if there is something between you and that girl…”

She turned around.

“…I need you to know that I will not allow it.”

Then she left.

The door clicked shut.

I sat there, completely still.

My phone buzzed.

Maya.

Maya:

Can I see you tomorrow?

Another message.

Maya:

I think something is wrong.

I stared at her name until my vision blurred.

Then another notification appeared.

Not from Maya.

From Sarah.

Sarah:

We need to talk.

I stared at the message.

Then another one came.

Sarah:

You should know I didn’t send your mother the picture to hurt you.

A pause.

Then:

Sarah:

I sent it because I know what Maya is doing.

My heart stopped.

I read the message again.

Then a final message appeared.

Sarah:

And I know what she did before you met her.

I stopped breathing.

What had Maya done?

And why had Sarah been watching us all this time?