If only

chapter 9

It wasn’t love.

Not yet.

But it was something, something dangerous enough to keep me awake at night, staring at the ceiling and replaying every glance, every word, every time he said my name like it meant something.

Tunde had this way of looking at me that made me forget.

Forget the grief.

Forget the guilt.

Forget that I was still broken in places no one could see.

He’d say something stupid, like

“You’re not even fine like that, but something about you is doing me somehow.”

And I’d roll my eyes, but inside, a part of me softened.

He didn’t ask about my silence.

He filled it.

With jokes.

With songs hummed under his breath.

With attention I didn’t ask for but started craving.

The first time it felt serious was when he sneaked inside the hostel ( because he was a day student)

We’d snuck there in the kindergarten class not to do anything, just to talk where nobody would find us.

He sat too close. I didn’t move.

He leaned in when he laughed. I let him.

“I like being around you,” he said, quiet this time. Not playful. Just real.

I didn’t know what to say.

Because in that moment, I wasn’t sure if I liked him… or if I liked the way he made me forget what I was running from.

“Do you ever miss someone so much, it feels like you’re still waiting for them to finish their sentence?” I asked.

He looked at me, confused.

But he nodded anyway.

And somehow, that felt enough.

I didn’t tell him about my brother.

Not yet.

But the space between us felt like it was holding a secret neither of us could name.

That night, I wrote in my journal:

“I think I’m starting to feel again.

I just don’t know if it’s real…

or if I’m still trying to fill the silence he left behind.”

Because that’s what Tunde was.

A moment of almost.

Almost joy.

Almost love.

Almost healing