THE HEART BETWEEN US

CHAPTER TWO — Beating in Sync

The next week came faster than I expected.

Days usually dragged for me.

They moved in slow, tired circles of medication alarms, unfinished homework, naps I never meant to take, and pretending I had more energy than I actually did. Most weeks felt long enough to stretch into months.

But this one disappeared.

One moment I had just returned from therapy, telling myself the boy in the blue hoodie meant nothing. The next moment, I was standing in front of my mirror again, adjusting my scarf for the third time.

I paused and frowned at my reflection.

The room behind me was small and familiar my neatly folded clothes on the chair, my books stacked beside the bed, the curtains half-drawn to keep out the afternoon heat. Everything looked ordinary.

Except me.

I looked… uncertain.

I straightened the edge of my hijab, then stepped back. One side sat slightly higher than the other. I fixed it. Then I leaned closer to the mirror, studying my face.

Did I always look this pale?

I pressed my lips together. Maybe a little lip gloss would help. Then I immediately stopped myself.

What was I doing?

I scoffed under my breath and turned away from the mirror.

Why do I even care?

It wasn’t like I was going somewhere exciting.

It was therapy.

A hospital room with plastic chairs, fluorescent lights, and pamphlets no one fully read.

And Jamil was just a stranger.

A friendly stranger, maybe.

An annoying one, definitely.

But still a stranger.

So why had I spent the last week remembering the sound of his voice?

Why had I replayed our short conversation while washing dishes, while pretending to read, while lying awake at night?

Why had the thought of seeing him again made my stomach feel oddly light?

I grabbed my file from the table before I could question myself further.

My mother called from the living room that it was time to go.

I answered quickly and followed her outside.

The drive to the hospital was quieter than usual.

Rain hadn’t fallen that day, but the roads still carried the memory of it mud gathered at the edges, puddles trapped in broken asphalt, the sky cloudy and undecided.

My mother hummed softly along to the radio as she drove.

I stared out the window, watching people move through the streets with purpose.

Vendors shouted prices from roadside stalls.

Schoolchildren in uniforms laughed too loudly.

A man balanced a tray of okpa on his head while weaving between cars.

Life everywhere.

Fast, noisy, busy life.

Sometimes I felt like I was standing still while everyone else kept moving.

“You’re quiet,” my mother said.

“I’m always quiet.”

She glanced at me knowingly. “Not this kind of quiet.”

I pretended not to hear her.

She smiled but didn’t push.

By the time we reached the hospital, my pulse had already begun its familiar uneven rhythm.

Part nerves.

Part habit.

Part something I refused to name.

The therapy room looked different that afternoon.

Quieter.

There were fewer chairs occupied, fewer voices, fewer people pretending to be comfortable in spaces designed for healing.

The fluorescent lights seemed softer somehow, or maybe it was just the cloudy daylight filtering through the windows.

The doctor hadn’t arrived yet.

Instead of the structured silence from last week, the room buzzed with scattered conversations. Two women near the front compared medication side effects. An older man laughed while telling a story I couldn’t hear properly. Someone coughed near the door.

I slipped in unnoticed and made my way to the farthest corner.

Distance was a skill I had mastered.

I sat down, placed my bag by my feet, and hugged my file close to my chest like a shield.

If I looked occupied enough, maybe no one would disturb me.

I kept my eyes lowered.

Then I heard it.

“Hey… Faiza, right?”

That voice.

Warm and amused and far too familiar for someone I barely knew.

I looked up slowly.

There he was.

Jamil.

No blue hoodie this time just a simple black sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. But the smile was the same. Easy. Bright. Like he had arrived carrying his own weather.

For a second, everything else in the room blurred.

“Yeah,” I said softly.

His smile widened as if I had given the perfect answer.

“See?” he said. “I didn’t have to say ‘hey’ four times this time.”

I stared at him, then looked away before he could see the smile threatening to form.

“You still counted?”

“I keep track of my progress.”

Without waiting for permission, he pulled the chair beside mine and sat down.

“Therapy is all about growth, right?”

I rolled my eyes.

But there was warmth behind it now.

He noticed immediately.

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are a little.”

“I’m not.”

“That denial smile counts too.”

I turned my face away, but it was useless. My lips had already betrayed me.

He leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too comfortable.

“So,” he said, “how have you been feeling?”

The question should have been simple.

People asked it all the time.

How are you?

How have you been?

Feeling better?

But most people didn’t really mean it. They asked out of habit, politeness, or discomfort.

They wanted easy answers.

Fine.

Good.

Better.

They didn’t want the truth.

The truth was messy.

The truth was waking tired after sleeping all night.

The truth was fear hiding inside ordinary moments.

The truth was feeling trapped in a body that looked normal but never fully cooperated.

I glanced at him.

He was waiting.

Not impatiently.

Just… waiting.

“Fine,” I said at last. “I guess.”

He tilted his head.

“Just fine?”

I traced the edge of my file with one finger.

“Some days are better,” I admitted quietly. “Some are not.”

He nodded like he understood more than I had said.

“Same here,” he replied. “Two nights ago I had this weird chest pain. Sharp one. I was scared it was the end.”

I turned sharply toward him.

“Don’t say that.”

The words came out stronger than I intended.

His expression changed instantly.

The teasing vanished.

He blinked. “Sorry.”

“It’s not funny,” I said, my voice lower now. “People like us don’t joke about that.”

Silence settled between us.

The room around us kept moving voices, footsteps, chairs scraping but our corner went still.

I expected him to laugh it off.

Or become awkward.

Or say I was overreacting.

Most people did one of those three things whenever they touched a fear too real to face.

Instead, Jamil lowered his gaze briefly, then met mine again.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

No defensiveness.

No mocking smile.

Just sincerity.

Something in my chest loosened.

“It’s okay,” I murmured.

And I meant it.

The doctor arrived moments later, carrying a stack of folders and the same practiced calm as before.

Everyone gradually settled into their seats.

The session began with breathing exercises.

We were told to inhale slowly for four counts, hold for four, exhale for four.

Around me, lungs obeyed.

My own breath felt shallow at first, but steadied with each repetition.

Then came gentle movement short walks along the corridor outside the room, supervised and slow. We were encouraged to listen to our bodies, not compete, not push.

Jamil walked two people ahead of me.

Once, he glanced back to make sure I was keeping up.

I pretended not to notice.

During group sharing, people spoke about fear, frustration, family pressure, finances, side effects.

Real things.

Heavy things.

I didn’t speak.

I rarely did.

But somehow, sitting there beside him, the room felt less suffocating.

Less like a place full of strangers.

Less like proof that something was wrong with me.

When the session ended, people began gathering their belongings.

I slipped my file into my bag and stood.

Before I could overthink it, I found myself glancing toward Jamil.

He was already looking at me.

And smiling.

I quickly turned toward the exit.

The hallway outside smelled faintly of bleach and damp walls.

I walked at my usual pace careful, measured, conserving energy without making it obvious.

Behind me came the sound of quick footsteps.

Then his voice.

“Hey! Wait up.”

I slowed.

Not because he asked.

Because I wanted to.

He caught up beside me, slightly out of breath.

“You walk fast.”

“I really don’t.”

“Emotionally fast, then.”

I stared at him.

He grinned.

We walked side by side toward the main entrance.

For a few moments, neither of us spoke.

It wasn’t uncomfortable.

Just full.

He cleared his throat.

“So… I was wondering something.”

I adjusted my bag strap. “What?”

He glanced at me, suddenly less playful.

“Maybe we could talk sometime. Outside therapy.”

I blinked.

“Talk?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugged lightly.

“About anything. Life. Food. Why hospital food always tastes like punishment. Movies. Music. The smell of this building. Whatever.”

I looked ahead at the sliding doors.

“I don’t really talk much.”

“I noticed.”

There was no judgment in his tone.

He smiled again.

“That’s okay. I talk too much. We’ll balance each other out.”

I hated how easily that made me smile.

He noticed that too.

Encouraged, he continued.

“So maybe… I can get your number?”

My heart skipped.

Not dangerously.

Just suddenly.

Why would he want it?

I wasn’t interesting.

I didn’t go out much.

I wasn’t witty or loud or effortlessly fun like some girls.

Most days I was tired before noon.

What exactly did he see worth texting?

I kept my eyes on the floor tiles.

“I don’t give my number out easily.”

The words came out more guarded than harsh.

But I needed the distance.

Needed time.

Needed to understand why his questions felt bigger than they should.

To my surprise, he nodded immediately.

“Okay.”

No complaint.

No pressure.

He lifted both hands in surrender.

“Fair enough. I respect that.”

We kept walking.

Part of me felt relieved.

Another part felt strangely disappointed.

At the gate, he stepped a little ahead, then turned to face me while walking backward.

That mischievous glint returned to his eyes.

“But,” he said, “if I promise not to spam you with messages, maybe you’ll change your mind next week?”

I shook my head, trying not to laugh.

“You’re persistent.”

He stopped walking backward and shrugged.

“You’re worth the effort.”

Heat rushed into my face so fast I was grateful for my hijab.

I looked away immediately and pretended to fix my bag.

He had no right saying things like that so casually.

No right making my chest feel crowded.

No right being this difficult to ignore.

We reached the gate where my mother’s car waited.

He gave a small, almost formal nod.

“See you next session, Miss Faiza.”

I finally looked at him again.

This time I let myself smile fully.

“See you, Jamil.”

His expression softened, as though my smile mattered more than it should.

Then I got into the car.

My mother looked at me before starting the engine.

“You look happier.”

“I look normal.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Hmm.”

I faced the window before she could continue.

The car pulled away.

In the side mirror, I caught one last glimpse of Jamil standing near the gate, hands in his pockets, watching us leave.

Then the road turned, and he was gone.

That night, sleep refused to come early.

I lay in bed with my phone in my hand, screen glowing softly against the dark room.

I scrolled through messages I didn’t care about.

A cousin’s forwarded joke.

Class updates.

Promotional texts I never subscribed to.

Nothing held my attention.

My thoughts kept drifting back to him.

His voice.

His ridiculous confidence.

The way he apologized without pride getting in the way.

The way he asked how I felt and actually listened.

The way he said you’re worth the effort like it was obvious.

I turned onto my side and placed the phone on my pillow.

This was dangerous.

Not because of him.

Because of me.

Hope was dangerous.

Attachment was dangerous.

Wanting things from people was dangerous.

Especially when life had already taught me how fragile everything could be.

And yet…

For someone I had only met twice, Jamil had somehow found his way into the quietest corners of my mind.

The places I kept locked.

The places untouched by routine and fear.

I stared at the ceiling.

“He’s just friendly,” I whispered to myself.

“That’s all.”

The room remained silent.

But somewhere deep inside, another voice answered.

Then why are you smiling?