CHAPTER 9 – Balance
816 Words
Imani didn’t like mess. Not the physical kind—her room was spotless, color-blocked and lavender-scented. Not the emotional kind either.
Everything had its place. Even heartbreak.
She sat at her desk, planner open, pencil poised. She’d written and erased the same three words four times: Follow up: refund?
Too cold. Too sharp.
She tried again: Check in: Jordan (re: loan)
But that wasn’t honest either. It wasn’t a loan.
It was a gift she hadn’t meant to give.
He’d called her late one night. 11:42 p.m. She remembered the exact time.
She was finishing her calc review. Her phone buzzed—two missed calls. Then a text:
Can I talk to you? Imani, please.
She called back instantly.
His voice was low. Rushed. Not his usual cool composure. This was ragged. Strained. Real.
“I wouldn’t be asking if I had any other choice.”
His uncle was sick, he said. Heart meds. Insurance lapse. The pharmacy needed payment upfront.
“I know it’s a lot,” he said.v“I hate asking you to see me like this.”
He never said, Can I borrow $500? He didn’t have to. She sent it before he finished explaining.
He paused when the notification hit.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
“You’re the only person I can trust with something like this.”
And she believed him.
Imani had always been the calm one. The planner girl. The safe one. The helper. The one people leaned on, but never leaned toward.
Jordan changed that.
He saw her—not just her grades, or her résumé. Her.
He asked things no one else thought to.
Not about college apps or career goals—but about fear.
About want.
About her.
“What scares you most about losing control?” he once asked.
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He didn’t push.
Just looked at her. Smiled—slow and sure.
“That look on your face? Most people never even stop to think about it.”
And somehow, that made her feel… respected. Like being cautious wasn’t weakness. Like restraint could still be brave.
With her, he was soft. He brought her tea. Let her edit his poems. Left color-coded stickers in the margins of her chem notes.
He called her his balance.
“You keep me from floating away.”
She’d blushed. Wrote it in the corner of her notebook like a line from a novel.
Now, she opened her Notes app. Scrolled to the locked folder labeled Unreturned.
Inside:
- A screenshot of the Venmo transfer
- A timestamp of the call
- A message she sent two weeks later: Hey, just checking in. Hope your uncle’s okay. No rush on the money—just let me know you’re alright.
He never replied.
She didn’t tell anyone. Not her parents. Not her best friend. Not Savannah or Mila—not when they started comparing their stories like puzzle pieces.
Because this wasn’t a scar.
It was a bruise.
Quiet. Deep. Still tender.
She wasn’t ashamed of what she gave. She was ashamed she thought it meant something.
Maybe the money wasn’t the worst of it. Maybe it was how easily he folded himself into her life. How naturally he played the role she didn’t know she was casting.
Sticky notes. Soft compliments. Quotes like:
“You’re not a star. You’re the whole constellation.”
She Googled it later. Second result. Tumblr.
Imani locked her phone. Set it face down.
She picked up her pen.
Today’s date. A fresh space.
She wrote, slowly:
I was not foolish. I was generous. That’s not the same thing.
She underlined it. Once. Then again.
He made her feel like being steady was something rare. Like her balance was something to cherish.
Now she knew better.
She hadn’t been his peace. She’d been his container.
A quiet place to pour the parts of himself he didn’t want to deal with. And when it filled to the brim—he left.
Imani leaned back. Closed her eyes. Let the feeling rise.
Not loud. Not burning. Just weight.
And under the weight—a flicker of heat.
Not shame. Not grief.
Anger.
He used her kindness as currency.
He’d turned her steadiness into an ATM. Turned her empathy into a hiding place.
She stood. Lit the candle on her windowsill. The one she’d been saving for a “special day.”
Turns out, surviving was special enough.
She didn’t text him. Didn’t block him either.
He didn’t get to live rent-free in her head. But he didn’t get to disappear like he was clean, either.
She turned back to her planner. Flipped to the back page. Wrote:
Balance isn’t silence.
It’s truth.
And I’m finally ready to hold mine.
She stared at the words. Let them settle.
Then she blew out the candle.
And turned out the light.
- Writer
