Borrowed Days

CHAPTER NINE — LOVING SOMEONE YOU CAN ALREADY FEEL SLIPPING AWAY

After that night, something changed in the house, even though everything still looked the same. The walls were still the same colour. The air was still quiet. The mornings still came like they always did. But nothing felt normal anymore, because I now knew there was a clock ticking inside a life I had just started to hold.

I stopped sleeping properly.

Not because I was back in danger, but because my mind refused to settle into peace that now had an expiration date. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him in pieces—strong one moment, tired the next, present but slowly fading at the edges.

He tried to act normal. That was the worst part. He still cooked sometimes. Still checked on me. Still smiled in that quiet way that used to calm me down. But now I saw the effort behind it. I saw the weight he was carrying just to make sure I didn’t break completely.

And I hated that I understood it.

Because I knew what it meant to pretend you are fine so someone else doesn’t fall apart.

One morning, I found him sitting outside longer than usual. The sun was soft, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was just sitting there, elbows on his knees, breathing slowly like every breath required permission.

I stood at the doorway for a while before going to him.

“You didn’t sleep,” I said quietly.

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he nodded slightly. “It was difficult.”

I sat beside him, not too close at first. My body still didn’t know what to do with fear that looked like silence.

“You should tell me when it gets worse,” I said.

He gave a small, tired smile. “And what would you do if I did?”

That question stayed in the air.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

Because the truth was—I didn’t know.

I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t even prepare for it.

And that helplessness felt like drowning in slow motion.

“I don’t like this,” I admitted softly.

He turned his head slightly toward me.

“Neither do I,” he said.

That honesty hurt more than any lie would have.

For a long time, we just sat there in silence. Not uncomfortable silence. Not peaceful silence either. Something in between—something fragile, like the air itself was trying not to disturb us.

Then I said something I didn’t plan to say.

“I used to think people like me don’t get moments like this.”

He looked at me.

“What kind of moments?” he asked gently.

I hesitated.

Then I said, “Being cared for. Being… chosen.”

His expression shifted slightly at that.

“You were always worthy of it,” he said.

My chest tightened immediately.

I looked away. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes it harder when you leave.”

Silence.

That sentence sat between us heavier than anything else.

I didn’t realize I had said it out loud until I felt the weight of it.

He didn’t respond immediately.

When he finally did, his voice was softer than usual.

“I don’t want you to think of me as someone who came just to leave.”

My hands curled slightly.

But isn’t that what this was?

Every good thing I had ever known had ended.

Eventually.

Always.

Days passed like that—quiet, slow, careful.

I started doing small things for him without thinking. Making food. Helping him sit when he got tired. Watching him more closely than I wanted to admit. Not because I was afraid of him, but because I was afraid for him.

And somewhere inside that fear, something else grew.

Something I didn’t know how to control.

One evening, I found myself sitting beside him longer than usual. The house was dim. The world outside felt distant.

He leaned slightly back on the chair, eyes half-closed. He looked peaceful for a moment. Too peaceful.

I watched him quietly.

Then I said, almost without thinking, “I don’t understand how you can still smile.”

He opened his eyes slowly.

“Because I’m still here,” he replied.

That answer made my throat tighten.

I shook my head slightly. “That’s not enough.”

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he said, “It is for me.”

I didn’t respond.

Because I didn’t know how to argue with someone who was already halfway gone from the future I was trying to hold onto.

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep again. I found him in the sitting room, sitting quietly like he often did when the pain was worse than he wanted to show.

I stood there for a while before speaking.

“Do you ever regret meeting me?” I asked softly.

He looked up immediately.

That surprised me.

“No,” he said without hesitation.

The speed of his answer made my chest ache.

“Not even a little?” I pushed quietly.

He shook his head.

Then he said, “Meeting you is one of the only things I don’t regret in my life.”

My breath caught slightly.

I sat down slowly, my hands tightening together.

“That’s not fair,” I whispered.

He frowned slightly. “What isn’t?”

“That you get to say things like that and still leave me.”

Silence again.

He looked down for a moment, then back at me.

“I wish I could change that,” he said.

My eyes stung, but I refused to let anything fall.

Because I was tired of crying over things I couldn’t stop.

There was a long pause.

Then I asked the question I had been avoiding.

“Am I just… something you’re leaving behind?”

His expression softened instantly.

“No,” he said quietly. “You’re what I’m trying not to leave behind empty.”

That sentence broke me in a way I couldn’t explain.

I stood up quickly, turning away so he wouldn’t see my face.

Because my chest hurt too much.

Because my heart had already started attaching itself to someone I was about to lose.

And I hated myself for not being able to stop it.

Behind me, I heard him stand too.

But he didn’t come closer.

He just said softly, “Aisha…”

I didn’t turn.

Because if I did, I knew I would fall apart in front of him.

And I wasn’t ready for him to see how much he already meant to me.

Not yet.