Oré
1159 Words
I woke up before dawn.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I couldn’t sleep.
This house is too quiet, too perfect. The kind of quiet that made every sound — a creak, a breath — feel louder.
I sat up, rubbing my face. My father’s words from last night still echoed in my head.
Forest High. Tomorrow.
It should have been simple — wake up, get dressed, start fresh.
But nothing about this felt like my life.
So I made up my mind.
I wasn’t going anywhere today.
Not to school. Not with him.
If he thought bringing me here meant I’d just fall into line, he didn’t know me at all.
I got dressed anyway, but not in anything school-related — just my old hoodie, jeans, and sneakers. If he asked, I’d say I was going for a walk. And maybe I was.
A slow, deliberate walk through this fancy neighborhood of his, to remind myself that I still decided what I did with my own two feet.
I stepped into the hallway, phone in hand, the cool morning air seeping through the windows.
Then I froze.
Vivian was there.
She stood near the front door, knotting her tie. The early light made her look almost unreal — her dark hair catching a faint golden glow, her uniform crisp and neat, like something out of a picture.
For a second, I forgot I was supposed to be rebelling.
She noticed me, of course. She always noticed me.
“You’re up early,” she said, voice calm but with that same quiet edge she’d had last night.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I replied, shrugging.
Her gaze flicked down to my clothes, then back to my face.
“You’re not dressed for school.”
“I’m not going,” I said simply.
One of her brows arched slightly — not in shock, but in amusement.
“Rebel phase?”
I almost smiled. “Call it what you want.”
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, studying me like she had all the time in the world.
“You know he’s going to be mad, right?”
“Good,” I said, forcing my voice to stay casual. “He can be mad. He left — he doesn’t get to decide what I do now.”
She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable.
“You sound like someone who thinks he’s still running his own story.”
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she said, pushing off the wall, “you’re already here. In this house. In his life. Whether you walk out that door or sit in that room, you’re still in it.”
Then she opened the door, letting the light pour in, and stepped outside.
“Enjoy your walk,” she said over her shoulder.
I stood there, watching her go, my so-called rebellion suddenly feeling smaller than it had five minutes ago.
But I still stepped outside a few minutes later, slipping my hoodie over my head, phone in my pocket.
If I was going to stay here, I needed to know this place — the streets, the corners, the spaces that weren’t his.
I wasn’t ready to follow his plan.
Not yet.
So why did it feel like every step I took was breaking that promise?
I lay back on the sand and stared at the sky until the sun burned orange, heat sinking into my skin.
“Be cool,” I muttered under my breath.
Maybe I was trying.
Maybe this was me trying.
---
When I finally stood, I brushed the sand off my arms and walked along the shoreline.
Two guys my age were kicking a football, their laughter sharp and bright against the steady crash of waves. One of them saw me and shouted,
“Wanna join?”
I shook my head but felt a grin tug at my mouth.
“You sure?” the other one called. “No teams yet, just passing!”
For a heartbeat, I almost said yes.
Almost.
Instead, I just waved them off and kept moving, the wet sand cold between my toes.
---
By the time I made my way back to the main road, the sun was higher, and the streets buzzed with life — frying oil popping from a bukka, bike horns snapping like impatient fingers, dust catching the light as people rushed by.
That’s when I saw them.
Three boys — shiny sneakers, polo shirts with logos bigger than their heads — had a smaller boy backed against a wall.
I froze for half a second. My chest went tight, that voice in my head whispering, keep walking, it’s not your business.
But I remembered the beach.
Remembered that I was supposed to be trying.
“Leave him alone,” I heard myself say before I could talk myself out of it.
The biggest one turned slowly, sizing me up with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
“And who are you?”
“Someone who said leave him alone.”
For a moment, the street held its breath. Then they muttered curses, spitting insults as they walked off.
The boy stayed where he was, one shoulder pressed lazily against the wall, backpack hanging off one arm like the whole thing had just bored him.
“Thanks,” he said casually.
“You okay?”
He smirked, brushing sand and dust off his shorts. “I was fine. You just made them leave faster.”
I frowned. He didn’t look rattled — if anything, he looked entertained.
“They do that a lot?”
“Not really.” He shrugged. “They just like to test people. I let them think they’re winning.”
I tilted my head. “So who are you, then?”
“Theophilus Tijan,” he said with a grin. “But everyone calls me Uncle Phil.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Uncle Phil?”
“Yeah.” He chuckled. “Long story. You’ll hear it eventually.”
We ended up walking together, him pointing out shortcuts, laughing about which shop sold the best meat pie and which snooker spot was a guaranteed fight trap.
He moved through the streets like he owned them, like he’d been here forever — which made me wonder if maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as new to this area as he was pretending to be.
By the time I reached the compound, the sky was sliding into that deep purple that meant night was coming, whether I was ready or not.
I climbed the stairs slower than before, my hoodie sticking to my back with the heat of the day.
Uncle Phil’s grin stayed with me — too confident, too knowing for someone who claimed he was new here.
I wasn’t sure what that meant yet, but it made the quiet of the house feel heavier when I finally stepped inside.
- Writer
