Wounded warrior

The Night I Couldnt Rest

I couldn’t sleep that night.

Not even for a second.

The room was dark, but my mind was louder than any noise outside.

Every breath felt heavy,

Every heartbeat felt like it was punching my chest from the inside.

Joyce’s message kept replaying

Like it was written on the walls,

On the ceiling,

inside my skull.

I lay on the bed staring at the phone…

Her number sitting in my speed dial—

The same number I used to call when I was happy,

When I was scared,

When Angela took her first steps,

When I thought love could survive anything.

Now it was just a reminder.

Of how quickly a whole future can fall apart.

I didn’t know what to say to her…

I kept scrolling for her name again.

My thumb shook as it hovered over “Call."

For minutes

I just stared at the screen.

Then I finally pushed the courage out of my broken chest.

I pressed CALL.

The phone rang once…

Twice…

Then suddenly—

“The number you have dialled is not available.”

I froze.

I tried again.

Same thing.

One more time, my heart beat hard enough to shake my whole body.

Same message.

That’s when it hit me like a truck:

She blocked me.

Joyce blocked my number.

Blocked me from her.

Blocked me from my daughter.

My mouth fell open,

But no words came out.

Just pain.

Raw.

Sharp.

Silent.

I dropped the phone on my chest,

Staring at the ceiling as tears slipped from the corners of my eyes.

Blocked.

Not because I cheated.

Not because I lied.

But because life pushed me back to a woman who simply chose to care

When everyone else chose to point fingers.

I turned to the side,

my body stiff,

my hand twitching.

I whispered into the darkness,

voice shaking:

“Joyce…

Why would you do this…?

I’m fighting for my life here.”

But there was no answer.

Just a blocked line

And the heavy truth

Sometimes life hits hardest

When you’re already on the floor.

The next morning, I woke up with a heaviness I couldn’t shake. Not the kind that comes from tiredness… but the kind that settles in the soul, quiet and dangerous.

The sun was already cutting brightly through the curtains by afternoon. I was sitting in the living room at Rebecca’s place, trying to distract my mind by watching soccer with Sello — her stepfather, calm as always, arms folded, eyes fixed on the TV.

But my body… my body had other plans.

My right hand began to stiffen slowly, just like it used to when the pain was on its way. I tried to ignore it. Tried shaking it off quietly. Pretending it was nothing.

But the stiffness grew — from my fingers into my wrist and then crawling up my arm.

I felt my breath shorten.

“Sello…” I whispered, but even my voice felt trapped in my throat.

Then panic hit me out of nowhere — fast, suffocating, like someone pressed a pillow against my face.

“Please… water,” I said, my words trembling as my tongue fought to form them.

The room started spinning. The TV blurred. My vision narrowed into a tight tunnel of light.

I remember Sello’s chair scraping the floor as he stood up quickly. I remember hearing Rebecca’s footsteps rushing in from the kitchen. I remember the electricity shooting through my body, the way my muscles twisted against my will.

Then nothing.

Darkness swallowed everything.

When I opened my eyes again, I was on the floor.

There was a pillow under my head — someone had thought fast. Rebecca was kneeling beside me, her eyes swollen and shining with tears. Her hands were shaking as they rested on my chest, as if making sure I was still breathing.

“You’re okay… you’re okay,” she said, but her voice was breaking.

Sello stood over us, his hands on his hips, breathing fast like he had run across the whole neighbourhood.

My first instinct was confusion, but then reality hit me in the chest.

I had a seizure.

My body had snapped, just like that — without warning, without mercy.

Rebecca’s tears fell onto my shirt. She brushed my hair back gently, her hands trembling.

“You scared me,” she whispered, her voice cracked, her face only a few inches from mine.

I tried lifting my right hand to touch her, to show her I was still here — still fighting.

But the hand wouldn’t move.

I looked at her, terrified.

“I… c-can’t…” I tried to say.

She closed her eyes, shaking her head as more tears escaped.

“We’re not losing you,” she whispered. “Not after everything. Not now.”

Her words wrapped around me, soft but fierce, like someone refusing to let the darkness win.

And in that moment, as I lay on the floor with my body still trembling, I realized something…

Life wasn’t just testing me.

It was breaking me apart piece by piece to see if I would still rise.

Rebecca noticed before I could even hide it. She had been watching me closely since morning — the way I kept staring into nothing, the way my chest rose too fast when I tried to breathe, the way fear sat behind my eyes like a shadow I couldn’t outrun.

She wiped the last tear from her face after the seizure scare, then looked at me again — deeper this time, as if trying to read the thoughts I hadn’t said.

“What is it?” she asked softly. “What’s troubling you now?”

Her voice was gentle, but her eyes were sharp with worry. She knew the difference between my physical pain and the kind that comes from the heart.

I swallowed hard.

My throat felt like it was closing, my voice shaking before the words even left my mouth.

“Joyce… blocked my number.”

I saw the shock in Rebecca’s face — the way her expression froze, her lips parting slightly as if the news punched the breath out of her.

I blinked hard, trying to stop my voice from cracking.

“How can she do that,” I whispered, “knowing how much I’m trying… how hard I’m fighting to survive every day?”

My voice trembled on the last word. Not from weakness… but from pain I didn’t know how to hold anymore.

Rebecca’s eyes filled instantly. Not jealousy. Not anger. Just pure, raw hurt — the kind you feel for someone you care about, even if the situation isn’t about you.

She reached for my hand, slowly, carefully, as if afraid any pressure might break me again.

She brushed her thumb across my knuckles, and her tears slid down her cheeks before she could stop them.

She tried to speak, but her voice cracked as she opened her mouth.

She shook her head, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

Then she leaned closer and whispered:

“Please… try to relax for now. We’ll talk about it later.”

She wasn’t dismissing me. She wasn’t ignoring the pain. She just didn’t want my heart to take another blow while my body was still fighting to recover from the seizure.

She placed her hand gently on my chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall of my breath, her touch warm, steady, grounding.

“I’m right here,” she whispered. “You’re not alone. Not today.”

And for the first time that day, I let my head fall back and allowed myself to breathe without pretending to be strong.