Still I Smile

Chapter 4- Shadows and Choices

I didn’t sleep that night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Baba lying on the road again — the rain, the bottle, the shame.

But more than that, I saw Stacy’s face fading away like smoke.

Love and pain had become twins in my heart.

The next morning, I packed a small bag and left home for a few days.

I told Mom I needed air. She just nodded — she knew what silence meant.

Sometimes silence is the only language of people who’ve cried too much.

I walked aimlessly through town, past faces that didn’t care.

Everyone looked busy chasing something — money, peace, dreams, love — and I was just chasing a reason to keep breathing.

At a small café near the bus station, I met him.

Kassim.

The kind of friend life gives you when you’re breaking — half trouble, half relief.

He saw me and shouted, “Ayy, Said the poet! You look like a rejected script, bro!”

I smirked weakly. “Life’s editing me too much, Kassim.”

“Editing? Bro, life deleted me a long time ago,” he said, laughing as he patted my shoulder.

He was the comic relief I didn’t know I needed — a mixture of sarcasm, street wisdom, and heart.

We sat and talked for hours. I told him about Stacy, about Baba, about everything.

He didn’t judge. He just listened, then said,

“Bro, love can’t feed you. But pain? Pain builds you.”

His words stuck like a nail.

Later that week, I went back home.

The house felt emptier — as if laughter had been banned.

Mom was gone on a short trip to look for cleaning work.

Baba was sleeping, still smelling of alcohol.

I sat beside him for a long time, watching him breathe.

He looked smaller somehow, weaker.

That’s when I realized that even the strongest men can break, and sometimes their sons are the ones who must fix them — even if it hurts.

I touched his hand softly and whispered, “Baba, I forgive you.”

He stirred slightly, but didn’t wake up.

Maybe forgiveness doesn’t need to be heard. Maybe it just needs to exist.

---

Days passed, and I threw myself into small hustles — tutoring, delivering packages, fixing things.

Money was tight, but at least I felt useful again.

Then, one night — out of nowhere — my phone buzzed.

The name on the screen froze me.

Stacy 💌

I stared at it, afraid to answer.

Then my thumb moved on its own.

“Hello?” I whispered.

Her voice.

Soft. Familiar. Painful.

“Said… it’s been long.”

My heart beat like a drum.

“Stacy… are you okay?”

A pause. Then a sigh.

“I’m getting married.”

The world went quiet.

The ceiling fan hummed. The street outside felt too loud.

Married? To who?

I wanted to scream, but all that came out was a dry laugh.

“Oh… that’s… great news.”

She chuckled faintly. “You always fake your smiles, Said.”

“Old habit.”

“I called because… I wanted you to hear it from me. You meant something. You still do.”

Her voice cracked.

And mine broke.

“Then why?” I asked softly.

She whispered, “Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

The line went dead.

And so did something inside me.

For weeks, I lived in silence.

Every letter I had written to her, I burned — not out of hate, but because fire was the only thing that understood how I felt.

I watched the smoke rise and thought, maybe she’ll see it from wherever she is.

Then came another storm.

Mom returned home crying — the family she worked for had accused her of theft and refused to pay her.

We had nothing again.

I looked at her trembling hands and felt rage building in me.

For years, I’d swallowed my pain, but now it was turning into something else — something darker.

That night, I went to see Kassim again.

He saw my face and said, “Bro, who died?”

I said, “Hope.”

We sat quietly. Then he said something that changed everything:

“You’re too good, Said. That’s your problem. You keep forgiving people who don’t deserve your prayers.”

He pulled out his phone and showed me something — a man who was hiring, “no questions asked.”

The kind of work that pays fast but smells like trouble.

I hesitated.

Kassim leaned closer.

“Bro, sometimes the only way to survive is to touch the fire without burning.”

That line stayed in my head long after I walked away.

Back home, I found Baba sitting alone — sober, for once.

He looked at me with tired eyes.

“Life isn’t fair, son,” he said. “But don’t let it make you unfair.”

It was the first real advice he’d given me in months.

I nodded. “I won’t, Baba.”

But deep down, I wasn’t sure.

Because life had already changed me.

And I could feel it — something cold and dangerous waking inside me.

The kind of hunger that doesn’t ask for food, but for payback.

A week later, I accepted the job.

It wasn’t legal, and it wasn’t safe.

But it was money.

And money meant food for Mom.

That’s how it began — my descent into the shadows.

I told myself I’d only do it for a short while.

Just until I could get back up.

But sometimes, the darkness doesn’t let you leave once you enter.

And in the middle of all this — a twist I didn’t see coming —

Stacy came back.

Not alone.

With her husband.

And the man she married was the very person my new job was targeting.

To be continued…