Still I Smile

Chapter 3- The beginning of the Fall

The rain had a strange way of finding me that night.

It wasn’t just falling — it was whispering. Every drop seemed to say her name. Stacy.

She hadn’t replied to my messages in three days.

Three long days that felt like a silent eternity.

I kept checking my phone every few minutes — pretending not to care whenever someone noticed. But deep down, I was crumbling.

My friends joked about it.

“Ayy Said, bro, maybe she upgraded, eh?”

“Maybe she found someone who writes shorter essays than you do, Mr. Poet!”

I’d force a laugh — because what else could I do?

They didn’t know that every word they said felt like a knife pressed gently into my chest.

They didn’t know that my walls were covered with the letters I wrote to her — hundreds of them, some stained with tears, some with coffee. Her name was everywhere — Stacy ❤️ Said — written in the corners of my notebooks, scribbled in the back of my math exercise book, even carved into my desk at school.

She was more than love. She was peace in chaos.

And now, peace had gone silent.

That same evening, when the sky was bruised purple, I heard my father’s voice — louder than usual.

“Who used my money?!” he roared.

I froze.

Mom’s voice trembled from the other room. “No one touched your money. You spent it yourself.”

He banged the table so hard that my little brother’s glass of milk spilled.

The smell of alcohol filled the house — bitter, sharp, and familiar.

I hated that smell. It meant only one thing — he was drinking again.

Since he’d lost his job after the pandemic layoffs, he hadn’t been the same.

He used to be my hero — the man who’d lift me high on his shoulders, who’d say “My son will make me proud one day.”

Now, he couldn’t even look me in the eyes.

That night, I saw something I’ll never forget.

I found him on the street near our house — lying by the roadside, rain soaking through his clothes, a bottle still in his hand.

People were whispering.

Some were laughing.

And me?

I just stood there, holding my umbrella, trying to decide whether to cover him from the rain or cover myself from the shame.

I knelt beside him and whispered, “Baba, please, let’s go home.”

He opened his eyes, bloodshot and distant.

“Go away, Said… It’s my life.”

Then he slapped me — weakly, drunkenly, but it wasn’t the pain that hurt.

It was the words. It’s my life.

That’s when I realized — sometimes love hurts more when it’s family.

The next morning, I couldn’t eat.

My phone buzzed.

For a moment, my heart leapt — Stacy.

But no. Just Safaricom.

I sat outside, staring at the sky that looked like an old wound — pale and tired.

I remembered the last thing she told me before disappearing:

“Said, don’t ever stop writing. Even if I’m not there to read.”

I wanted to believe she’d come back. That maybe life was just testing me.

But each day without her felt like another brick added to the wall between us.

Then Mom came, her face weary but still carrying strength like an old soldier.

“You need to be strong,” she said softly. “This family still needs you.”

I nodded, but deep down I wanted to scream — who’s strong for me?

Weeks passed.

Dad was drinking more often.

Relatives started visiting — not to help, but to gossip.

“Your father used to be a man of respect,” one aunt whispered loud enough for me to hear.

Now he’s just a story people tell with pity.

I started working small jobs — carrying sacks, tutoring kids, anything to help Mom with the bills.

At night, I’d sit by the window, phone in hand, scrolling through old messages from Stacy.

The one that always broke me read:

“If love ever hurts you, Said, remember I loved you gently.”

It was like she’d known what was coming.

Then one night, something changed.

I was walking home late after a long day, when I saw flashing lights outside our house.

My heart raced.

Neighbors were gathered, whispering again.

And there, in the middle of it — my father.

Fighting with a man.

I rushed in, pulling him back. “Baba, stop!”

He pushed me away.

“Who do you think you are?! You’re nothing, Said! NOTHING!”

And he hit me again.

That time it wasn’t weak.

That time it cut through more than skin.

I didn’t cry. I just stood there, fists trembling.

Because the truth was, he wasn’t lying.

I did feel like nothing.

No job, no money, no love, no peace.

Just me — a boy with a cracked heart, watching the pillars of his life fall one by one.

Later that night, I went to the rooftop.

The air was cold, but it felt good — it made me feel alive.

I looked at the city lights flickering like dying stars.

And for the first time in my life, I whispered something I’d never said before:

“Ya Allah, if this is my test… please don’t let it break me.”

I closed my eyes and let the wind carry my prayer.

Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered — this is not the end. It’s the beginning of your story.

But I didn’t know that sometimes, before things get better… they get worse.

To be continued...