Echoes of the past

Chapter 8

The next day Ezekiel call woke me up.

"Hey," he said. His voice sounded far away. How are you holding up?

I don't know,I said honestly. I feel like I'm in a waiting room. Like I'm supposed to be doing something, but there's nothing to do.

Yeah, he said. I know that feeling.

We talked for a while. He told me he had started helping his nanny with the cooking because he was bored. I burned rice yesterday, he said. The whole pot. The smell is still in the kitchen."

I laughed. It was the first real laugh in days.

I miss seeing you, he said quietly.

My heart did something strange. A little skip. A little flutter. I didn't know what to call it.

Me too,I said.

We made plans to meet again. Same coffee shop. Same bench by the window. I didn't tell my parents this time because they were not home. I just left a note on the kitchen table in case: Went out. Back soon.

When I got to the coffee shop, Ezekiel was already there. He had ordered for me—tea with too much sugar, the way I liked it. The way I had told him once, in passing, and he had remembered.

You look different,he said.

Different how?

I don't know. Softer? No. That's not the word.He tilted his head, studying me. Less like you're trying to be something. More like you're just… being.

I didn't know how to respond to that. So I just drank my tea and let the warmth spread through my chest.

We talked about nothing important. The weather. A movie he had watched the night before. The ridiculous price of textbooks. But somewhere in the middle of the conversation, he reached across the table and touched my hand. Just for a second. Just his fingers brushing against mine.

Neither of us mentioned it.

But I thought about it the whole walk home.

The waiting continued.

Weeks passed. The clock on the wall became my enemy. My mother stopped asking if I was okay and started giving me small tasks—fold the laundry, chop the onions, help your father organize his files. I think she was trying to keep me busy. Or maybe she just needed help. I didn't ask.

My father came home earlier than usual one Friday. He found me in the living room, watching a show I didn't care about.

Anita,he said, sitting in his armchair. Come. Sit.

I muted the TV and turned to face him. He looked tired too. There was grey in his beard that I hadn't noticed before.

I've been thinking, he said. About university. About your future.

My stomach clenched.

I want you to know, he continued slowly, that whatever happens with your results, we are proud of you. Your mother and I.

I blinked. This was not what I expected.

You worked hard, he said. Harder than I did at your age. And I know…He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I know we have been strict with you. Maybe too strict. But we only wanted what was best.

Dad, I said, my voice smaller than I intended, what if I don't want what's best?

He looked at me. Really looked. The way my mother had looked at me that day in my room.

Then we talk about it, he said simply. That's what families do."

I didn't cry. But I came close.

The day the results came, I was in the kitchen helping my mother peel potatoes.

Results are out. Check now. Short message from Ezekiel

My hands started shaking.

My mother saw my face. What is it?

I couldn't speak. I just showed her the phone.

She took it from my hands gently. Read the message. Then she pulled me into a hug. The kind of hug she hadn't given me since I was a child. Tight. Warm. Like she was trying to hold me together.

Whatever it is,she whispered into my hair, we will handle it. Together.

I pulled away collected my phone and send the message I was supposed to send.

At first nothing came up few minutes later my fate was decided.