Chapter 10- Friends?
1313 Words
Did you have fun?
I stared at Adam's message longer than I should have.
The house was quiet now.
Too quiet.
Only an hour ago, it had been filled with Zarra's laughter, Zayn's soft voice, Liam's teasing, and the ridiculous dialogue from the romantic comedy we had watched in the living room.
Now, everything had settled.
The kids were asleep.
Liam was in the guest room.
And I was alone in the kitchen, standing beside the sink with my phone in one hand.
I should have ignored the message.
It was late.
I was tired.
But for some reason, my fingers moved anyway.
Yes.
The kids had fun.
His reply came a moment later.
That's good.
They looked happy.
I frowned slightly.
Of course.
My i********: story.
I had uploaded a short clip earlier, just a few seconds of Zarra laughing at the fun park while Liam tried to stop her cotton candy from flying away in the wind.
Nothing personal.
Nothing too revealing.
Just a harmless story.
Still, knowing Adam had seen it made me feel strangely aware of myself.
You saw my story again? I typed.
Yes.
At least he was honest.
You watch everything?
There was a pause.
Then,
Not everything.
Just when I see your updates.
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
That's not much better.
I know.
Sorry.
I stared at his apology.
Again.
He apologised easily.
Not dramatically.
Not like someone trying to escape blame.
Just a simple sorry.
It was annoying how much that made him seem less annoying.
You apologise a lot, I replied.
Do I?
Yes.
Maybe because I keep doing things that make me need to apologise.
I let out a small laugh before I could stop myself.
At least he knew.
Your cousin seems close to them, he added.
I glanced toward the hallway where the guest room was.
Liam.
The one person who could walk into my house with two large shopping bags, let my daughter climb all over him, listen to my son talk about puzzles, feed my children until they were full, and carry one of them inside when they fell asleep.
Close did not even begin to describe it.
He is family, I typed.
More like a brother.
He shows up.
I did not know why I added the last sentence.
Maybe because it was true.
Maybe because I wanted someone to understand that showing up mattered.
Adam's reply came slower this time.
That matters.
I swallowed.
Yes.
It did.
More than most people realized.
Titles were easy.
Father.
Husband.
Family.
But presence...
Presence was different.
Presence required effort.
Choice.
Consistency.
A person could have a title and still be absent.
I knew that too well.
My phone buzzed again.
Not everyone with a title knows how to be present.
I froze.
For a moment, the kitchen felt quieter than before.
His words slipped too easily into a place inside me I did not like anyone touching.
I read the message once.
Then again.
Then I placed my phone face down on the counter and turned away.
No.
I was not doing this.
I was not about to have a deep emotional conversation with a man I barely knew at almost midnight.
A man who had saved my number for more than a year.
A man who followed my social media quietly.
A man who had somehow managed to say things that landed a little too accurately.
I poured myself a glass of water and drank half of it in one go.
Then I looked at the phone again.
Curiosity really was dangerous.
I picked it up.
Their father wasn't around much.
I stared at the sentence.
Too honest.
Too much.
I deleted it.
Then typed again.
Some people are present only in name.
I hit send before I could change my mind.
For several seconds, there was nothing.
No typing indicator.
No reply.
I wondered if I had made things awkward.
Then his message appeared.
I'm sorry.
I exhaled slowly.
Don't be.
It is what it is.
I hated that sentence.
People said it when they had no energy left to explain pain.
It is what it is.
As if accepting something made it hurt less.
Adam replied.
Your kids are lucky to have you.
I stared at the screen.
There it was.
The sentence everyone loved to say.
The one that sounded kind but somehow always made me feel more tired.
People always say that, I typed.
Does it annoy you?
I hesitated.
Then answered honestly.
Sometimes.
Why?
I bit the inside of my cheek.
Because it made me feel like I was not allowed to break.
Because if my children were lucky to have me, then I had to keep being strong.
All the time.
No matter how tired I was.
No matter how lonely I felt.
No matter how many nights I stared at the ceiling wondering how long I could keep carrying everything.
But I did not type all that.
Instead, I wrote,
Because being strong doesn't mean I'm not tired.
This time, Adam did not reply immediately.
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally, his message came.
Then tonight, don't be strong.
Another message followed.
Just sleep.
I stared at the words until they blurred slightly.
It was such a simple thing to say.
Almost nothing.
And yet, for reasons I did not want to examine, my chest tightened.
Maybe because no one had said that to me in a long time.
Maybe because people usually told me to be strong.
To be patient.
To be grateful.
To keep going.
But Adam told me to sleep.
As if rest itself was allowed.
As if I did not have to earn it.
I blinked and looked away from the screen.
Ridiculous.
I was being ridiculous.
This was how people got themselves into trouble.
One soft sentence.
One quiet night.
One stranger who knew exactly what to say.
My phone buzzed again.
Sorry.
Was that too much?
I smiled faintly.
You really do apologise a lot.
I told you.
I probably need to.
For a while, I simply stood there in the kitchen, holding my phone while the rest of the house slept around me.
Then Adam sent another message.
Can I ask again?
I already knew what he meant.
Still, I typed,
Ask what?
His reply came almost instantly.
Can we be friends?
I leaned against the counter and closed my eyes for a moment.
Friends.
Such a simple word.
Such a complicated thing.
I thought about everything I knew about him so far.
Adam.
Twenty-nine.
Former food delivery rider.
Now working night shift in warehouse logistics.
Single.
Apparently observant.
A little too persistent.
A little too curious.
A little too good at saying things I did not know I needed to hear.
I should have said no.
Any sensible woman would have said no.
But maybe I was tired of being sensible all the time.
Maybe I was lonely.
Maybe I simply wanted to know what kind of person had quietly watched my little life from a distance and still decided to send that first message.
My fingers hovered above the keyboard.
Then I typed,
Friends.
Before he could reply, I added,
But no weirdness.
His response came a few seconds later.
Define weirdness.
I laughed softly.
For the first time that night, the heaviness in my chest loosened.
You'll know.
Another pause.
Then,
Okay, friend.
I stared at the word.
Friend.
Not lover.
Not anything dangerous.
Just friend.
At least, that was what I told myself as I switched off the kitchen light and made my way to my bedroom.
But even after I placed my phone on the bedside table and closed my eyes, his last message stayed with me.
Okay, friend.
And for some strange reason, the silence did not feel as empty as it usually did.
- Writer
