CHAPTER TWELVE — Words Between Us
1551 Words
The ward was quieter when I returned the next week.
Too quiet.
His bed was empty… sheets neatly folded, curtains drawn with a kind of finality that made my chest ache. Even the pillow looked untouched, like he had never been there at all. But I knew better. I could still picture him lying there, half-smiling, half-complaining, filling the space with a kind of restless energy that made everything feel alive.
Now, the air felt still.
The space where his laughter used to echo felt hollow like a room that had forgotten its purpose.
He’d been discharged the day before.
I should’ve been happy.
I was happy… just not completely.
Because happiness, I was learning, could come with a quiet kind of loss attached to it. And this felt like one of those times.
I sat through therapy that day, pretending to listen as the doctor explained breathing exercises and emotional regulation techniques. His voice rose and fell in calm, measured tones, but it barely reached me.
My mind kept wandering.
Every time he said something about recovery, I thought of Jamil walking out of those hospital doors.
Every time the nurse smiled, I imagined his grin replacing hers.
Every pause in the room felt like a place where his voice should have been.
“Faiza?” the doctor called gently.
I blinked, realizing everyone was looking at me.
“Yes?”
“Would you like to share how you've been feeling this week?”
I hesitated, fingers tightening slightly in my lap.
“I think…” I started slowly, searching for the right words. “I think I’m… adjusting.”
It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the full truth either.
Because how do you explain missing someone you weren’t even supposed to get attached to?
The session ended with polite nods and soft encouragements. I walked out feeling heavier than when I came in.
By the time I got home, I dropped my bag on the bed and lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. The silence followed me here too, settling into the corners of my room like it belonged.
Then my phone buzzed..
I turned my head slowly, not expecting anything important.
But the moment I saw his name, something inside me lifted.
Jamil: “Ruby, therapy without me? I bet it was boring.”
A smile broke across my face before I could stop it.
It felt… automatic.
Me: “Maybe just a little.”
The typing dots appeared almost instantly.
Jamil: “A little? I was the fun one there.”
I huffed softly.
Me: “Sure. The same fun one who scared everyone half to death.”
Jamil: “Hey, don’t remind me. My mom still looks at me like I’m a walking heart monitor.”
A quiet laugh slipped out of me, surprising even myself.
I stared at the screen longer than I should have, rereading the messages like they carried more than just words.
Like they carried him.
And somehow… that was enough.
That became our new routine.
At first, it was just small check-ins. Casual messages. Simple conversations.
But slowly, it grew into something else.
Texts turned into late-night voice notes.
Voice notes turned into random calls.
And before I realized it, he had slipped into my everyday life like he had always been there.
He would send pictures of his meals, calling them “doctor-approved disasters.”
“Look at this,” he sent once, accompanied by a blurry picture of what looked like overcooked rice and something unidentifiable. “If I survive this food, I can survive anything.”
“That looks illegal,” I replied.
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Ruby.”
I rolled my eyes at my phone, but the smile lingered long after.
Sometimes, I’d send him pieces of myself in return.
Short poems.
Unfinished thoughts.
Things I couldn’t say out loud.
One night, I sat by my window, watching the faint glow of streetlights outside, and typed something without thinking too much about it.
“There’s a kind of silence
that feels like your laughter paused in time…
waiting to return.”
I stared at it for a moment, debating whether to send it.
Then I did.
Almost immediately, my phone buzzed.
Jamil: “Then I’ll make sure it returns.”
My breath caught slightly.
It wasn’t just what he said.
It was how quickly he said it.
Like he understood.
Like he always understood.
Sometimes, he’d call while watching football.
“You’re not even listening, are you?” he said once, mid-rant about a match.
“I am!” I protested, sitting cross-legged on my bed.
“Okay, then what did I just say?”
I paused.
“…You’re very passionate?”
He laughed.
“Unbelievable.”
But he didn’t hang up.
He kept talking.
And I kept listening.
Not always to his words… but to his voice.
There was something comforting about it. Something steady. Something alive.
It filled spaces in me I hadn’t realized were empty.
At school, Aisha noticed.
Of course she did.
“You’ve been smiling too much lately,” she said one afternoon, leaning against my desk with a knowing look. “What’s his name?”
I kept my eyes on my notebook, pretending to focus.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“faiza,” she dragged my name out slowly.
“You literally just smiled at your phone for no reason.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’re doing it again.”
I bit my lip, trying and failing to suppress it.
Aisha gasped dramatically.
“Oh my God. It’s serious.”
“It’s not serious,” I said quickly, maybe too quickly.
She raised an eyebrow.
“So there is someone.”
I groaned softly, dropping my pen.
“It’s nothing like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
I hesitated.
Because I didn’t know how to answer that.
What do you call something that exists somewhere between friendship and something more?
Something that feels deeper than it should… but hasn’t been named yet?
“I just…” I exhaled. “I like talking to him.”
Aisha’s expression softened slightly.
“That’s how it starts, you know.”
I looked away.
“I’m not thinking about that.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t.”
She studied me for a moment, then shrugged.
“Alright. But just so you know… you look happier.”
That stayed with me.
Even after she walked away.
The days turned into weeks.
And even though we didn’t see each other physically, it felt like he was always around.
Tucked between my sentences.
Humming quietly in my thoughts.
Laughing between my poems.
Sometimes, I’d catch myself reaching for my phone before anything else in the morning, just to see if he had texted.
And most times… he had.
“Good morning, poet.”
“You awake or still dreaming up metaphors?”
“I tried jogging today. Almost died. Progress.”
He told me he was getting stronger.
That he could walk longer distances now.
That he could even jog a little sometimes.
I believed him.
Because I wanted to.
Because believing him felt easier than questioning it.
But every now and then…
There would be a pause.
A silence.
A moment where the line went quiet for just a few seconds longer than usual.
“Jamil?” I’d say softly.
Then....
“I’m here,” he’d reply.
Always.
But those few seconds…
They stayed with me.
My chest would tighten, just slightly.
Like my heart was holding its breath for his.
And I hated that feeling.
Because it reminded me of something I didn’t want to face.
That no matter how much better he sounded…
He had still been a patient.
And some things don’t just disappear overnight.
Still, I never said it out loud.
I never asked too many questions.
I didn’t want to break whatever fragile normalcy we had built.
One night, after a long call, I lay in bed staring at my phone long after we had hung up.
The screen had gone dark, but I could still hear his voice in my head.
Still feel the warmth of it.
I turned onto my side, pulling the blanket closer.
And without thinking, I whispered softly into the quiet room.
“He’s fine.”
The words felt like both a comfort and a plea.
“He has to be fine.”
Because the alternative…
I wasn’t ready for that.
Not now.
Not when he had become something I didn’t even realize I needed.
Jamil was more than a memory of a hospital ward now.
More than a voice on the other end of a call.
He was a rhythm my days had learned to follow.
A presence that made everything feel a little less heavy.
A reason I smiled at nothing.
And I wasn’t ready for silence.
Not again.
Not from him.
So I closed my eyes, holding onto the sound of his laughter in my mind like it was something I could keep.
Something that wouldn’t fade.
Something that would stay.
Because some connections don’t need proximity to grow.
Just words.
Just time.
Just two hearts, learning each other slowly… in the spaces between everything unsaid.
- Writer
