THE HEART BETWEEN US

CHAPTER THIRTEEN — Almost Normal

It had been months since that long night at the hospital…

the night everything felt like it was slipping through my fingers…

the night I thought I was going to lose him.

Time had passed in quiet, steady ways. Not dramatic, not loud just small, consistent changes that slowly reshaped everything.

And now, things were finally… different.

Not perfect.

But different.

My doctor said my heart had “responded beautifully” to treatment.

I remember the way he smiled when he said it, like he was proud of something he had helped rebuild. I sat there, nodding politely, but inside, I didn’t quite know what to do with the information.

Because for so long, my body had felt like something fragile. Something unpredictable.

And now… it wasn’t.

Or at least, it didn’t feel like it anymore.

I no longer woke up with that terrifying sensation of a drum beating too hard inside my chest. The kind that made every breath feel borrowed. The dizziness that used to follow me like a shadow was gone. The sharp, aching pain that used to sit quietly beneath everything had faded into something I could barely remember.

For the first time in years…

I could breathe without fear.

Really breathe.

Not carefully. Not cautiously.

Just… breathe.

Sometimes, I would stand in front of the mirror longer than necessary, studying my own reflection like I was meeting myself for the first time.

There was something different in my eyes.

Less fear.

More life.

I didn’t see the sick girl anymore.

I saw… me.

And somehow, that felt both comforting and unfamiliar at the same time.

Even Jamil noticed.

Of course he did.

“You sound stronger,” he said one evening over a call, his voice soft but certain.

I leaned back against my pillow, phone pressed to my ear.

“You think?”

“I know,” he replied without hesitation. “You don’t wheeze when you laugh anymore.”

I raised an eyebrow, even though he couldn’t see me.

“That was one time.”

“It was every time,” he corrected.

I scoffed lightly.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Then laugh.”

“What?”

“Laugh,” he insisted. “Let me check something.”

I narrowed my eyes playfully, then let out a small laugh.

“Properly,” he added.

“You’re so annoying,” I muttered but I laughed again, louder this time.

He went quiet for a second.

Then......

“See?” he said softly. “No wheezing.”

Something about the way he said it made my chest feel warm.

So I laughed again.

Harder this time.

Just to prove him right.

We had become best friends.

Not suddenly. Not in a way I could pinpoint.

It just… happened.

Somewhere between late-night conversations and shared silences… between jokes and honesty… between everything we said and everything we didn’t.

We became that kind of close.

The kind where you don’t need to think before speaking.

The kind where even quiet moments feel full.

We talked about everything and nothing at the same time.

Before school.

During breaks.

Late at night until one of us fell asleep mid-text.

Sometimes, I’d wake up in the morning with my phone still in my hand, our conversation frozen mid-sentence.

And somehow, it always felt like we had just picked up where we left off.

He would tell me about university life.

The chaos of lectures.

The confusion of assignments.

The unpredictability of group projects.

“Engineering is not for the weak,” he said dramatically once.

“You chose it,” I reminded him.

“I didn’t know it would try to kill me.”

“You’re being dramatic again.”

“I almost failed a test last week.”

“Almost doesn’t count.”

“It does in my heart.”

I laughed.

He told me about his friends too how loud they were, how they argued over the smallest things, how they turned everything into a competition.

“You’d like them,” he said once.

“I doubt that.”

“Why?”

“Because they sound like you.”

“Exactly,” he said proudly.

And I told him about my world too.

About Aisha and her endless teasing.

About my teachers and their impossible expectations.

About the quiet pressure that came with knowing WAEC was getting closer every day.

“So you’re really writing WAEC this year?” he texted one afternoon.

“Yes,” I replied. “Scary, right?”

There was a pause.

Then.......

“Not for you,” he said. “You’ll probably finish the paper before time and start correcting the questions.”

I rolled my eyes, smiling.

“Very funny, Jamil.”

“I’m serious.”

“You say that now.”

“Ruby,” he added, more softly this time. “You’re the smartest person I know.”

I stared at that message longer than I expected to.

Because it didn’t feel like a joke.

It felt… real.

And something about that made my chest tighten in a different way.

A softer way.

Sometimes, I wondered how someone I met because of pain…

Could become the reason I smiled so easily.

It didn’t make sense.

But then again, not everything had to.

Some things just… happened.

When I wasn’t reading, I wrote.

It had become a quiet habit.

A way to say things I didn’t fully understand yet.

Poems.

Letters.

Short pieces that didn’t always have endings.

I showed them to him.

Only him.

He called them “heart scribbles.”

“At least call them something cooler,” I complained once.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something serious.”

“They are serious,” he said. “That’s why I call them that.”

I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re emotional,” he replied easily.

“Wow.”

“I mean it in a good way.”

“You better.”

He had a favorite.

Of course he did.

He always remembered things I forgot I even said.

“We are two survivors in the same storm,

waving at each other through the rain.”

“You wrote that like it was nothing,” he said once.

“It was nothing,” I replied.

“It wasn’t.”

“It was just a thought.”

“It made me cry.”

I froze slightly.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

There was something in his voice that made me believe him.

And suddenly, I didn’t know what to say.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly. “It’s a good thing.”

“Crying?”

“Feeling,” he corrected.

I swallowed.

“Oh.”

He sounded healthy too.

Stronger.

Lighter.

Like someone who had stepped out of something heavy and hadn’t looked back.

He said the doctors were happy with his progress.

That he didn’t get tired as easily anymore.

That he was “basically unstoppable now.”

“Relax,” I told him once. “You’re not a superhero.”

“You haven’t seen me run yet.”

“I don’t think I want to.”

“Rude.”

Sometimes, he’d send voice notes full of energy.

Singing badly.

Laughing loudly.

Teasing me endlessly.

“Listen to this,” he sent one day.....followed by a completely off-key attempt at a song.

I covered my mouth, trying not to laugh too loudly.

“That’s painful,” I replied.

“You have no taste in music.”

“You have no talent.”

“Wow.”

“You started it.”

“And I’ll finish it,” he said.

But he never did.

He just laughed.

There were days I forgot we were ever patients.

Days when everything felt… almost normal.

Like we were just two people who met randomly and decided to stay in each other’s lives.

No hospital.

No fear.

No fragile beginnings.

Just… this.

And those days felt the easiest.

The safest.

The kind of days I didn’t question anything.

But sometimes…

In the middle of our calls…

There would be a pause.

Small.

Barely noticeable.

But there.

A slight break in his breathing.

Quick.

Sharp.

Gone almost as soon as it came.

But I heard it.

Every time.

And every time…

My chest would tighten again.

“Jamil?” I’d ask softly.

Then......

“I’m here,” he’d reply.

Always.

Always with that same steady tone.

Like nothing had happened.

Like I had imagined it.

“Bad network,” he’d add casually.

But I knew it wasn’t.

I knew the difference between silence and strain.

Between a pause and a breath that came a little too late.

I just… didn’t say it.

Because saying it would make it real.

And I wasn’t ready for that.

Not when everything finally felt calm.

Not when the fear had finally loosened its grip on me.

So I chose something easier.

Something softer.

I chose to believe in the better version of the truth.

That we were both healing.

That everything was getting better.

That nothing would go wrong again.

It wasn’t denial.

At least… I told myself it wasn’t.

It was hope.

And hope, sometimes, asks you to ignore the small cracks in the picture.

One evening, after we had been talking for hours, the conversation slowed into something quieter.

“Ruby?” he said.

“Hmm?”

“You ever think about how weird this is?”

“What is?”

“This,” he said. “Us.”

I smiled faintly.

“Sometimes.”

“Two people meet in a hospital,” he continued. “And now they can’t stop talking.”

“That’s not weird,” I said softly.

“No?”

“No,” I replied. “It just means we stayed.”

He went quiet for a moment.

Then.....

“I’m glad we did.”

Something in my chest shifted slightly.

“Me too,” I whispered.

Later that night, after the call ended, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

The room was quiet.

Peaceful.

The kind of quiet that didn’t feel heavy anymore.

And yet…

There was still that small, familiar feeling sitting beneath everything.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

Just… awareness.

Like my heart was reminding me not to get too comfortable.

Not to forget where all of this started.

But I pushed it away gently.

Not forcefully.

Just enough.

Because after months of pain…

This peace felt sacred.

Like something fragile but beautiful.

Something I didn’t want to question too much.

Something I didn’t want to lose.

So I turned onto my side, pulling the blanket closer around me, holding onto the memory of his voice like it was something solid.

Something real.

And just before sleep pulled me under, I whispered quietly.

“Almost normal… is still good.”

Because for now…

Almost was enough.

And I wasn’t ready to ask for more.