Another day in the hospital.
Monitored. Prodded. Scanned. Observed. A daily routine that was foreign to Theophilus, a boy who had never been so much as scrutinized in all his life. This new world of constant supervision left him feeling like a stranger in his own body.
He had always been the one to make the best out of the smallest things—he had to be. His mother leaned on him heavily, from house chores to raising his little sister. He had been the quiet strength, the dependable son. His father? Complicated. Present in absence, distant yet strangely grounding. Benjamin Tshepo Motaung—never truly around, yet never truly gone. He wasn't the type to disappoint. Nor the type to inspire fear. He was just... Theophilus's father. And somehow, in the strange arithmetic of the heart, that had always been enough. His father's silence had spoken louder than his mother's presence, and yet, the love he held for his mother outshone everything else.
He'd been his own pillar most of his life. That realization came crashing down on him as he sat, half upright in his bed, his body broken, his memories flickering in and out like echoes in an empty room. The nurses passed by with their cheerful duties, their practiced smiles, their kindness owed more to routine than connection. Yet someone else had been caring for him. Not his mother. Not his father. Not even himself—though he was still here mentally, holding on. That counted for something.
The doctor came by after breakfast. A man whose words were soft and reassuring, his tone bright even when the prognosis wasn't. Dislocated knee. Shattered arm. The latter was the real trouble—twisted in a way arms weren't meant to go, the veins and tendons around his elbow angry and throbbing. Still, the doctor smiled through it all. This was his world—twisted limbs and fractured bones were just another Tuesday.
After the visit, Theophilus drifted in thought, until he noticed one of the boys in the shared room watching him. A smile. Curious. Intent on starting a conversation. He was around fifteen or sixteen, hard to tell. Bandages wrapped around his torso and neck like an off-white scarf. One eye patched, the other—light brown, alert, and oddly familiar.
Theophilus nodded.
"Yo," the boy said, his accent distinctly African American.
Theophilus blinked. He hadn't expected it.
The boy's name was Jeffrey. A mismatched name for his dark, beautiful skin, his rough posture, his quiet dignity. Theophilus—light-skinned, Mexican-featured, and caught somewhere between identities—couldn't help but think Jeffrey looked more South African than he did. But there was more to it than looks. Jeffrey carried something in his eyes—not hope, not exactly—but the memory of it. His ambitions were quieter, dulled by reality, yet not erased.
They talked. Slowly, cautiously. Theophilus didn't inspire the conversation, but he was grateful for it. Jeffrey's words painted the outside world better than any doctor's diagnosis ever could. The 'hood,' he called it. A different kind of jungle. His stories were laced with truth, rough and unfiltered.
And then—like a knife through a dream—Theophilus remembered the letter.
His little sister's letter. Meant for their bedridden father. It had been in his possession. Once. He sat up too quickly, pain lighting up his body. His arm protested violently, and he nearly cried out, but bit it down to a muffled gasp. Panic bloomed in his chest.
Gone. The letter was gone. So were his belongings.
He cursed himself for not reading it, for not knowing what message she had entrusted him with. But then again… did he even trust her anymore? Or their mother? He wasn't sure. Maybe he didn't. Still, the thought that his father would never see that letter made him feel ill. Guilt was a twisted thing.
Jeffrey had been watching. Patient. Observant. Then, with a tilt of his head, asked softly, "You Kay?"
It took a moment before Theophilus nodded. "Yes," he whispered.
Jeffrey didn't press. He was smart enough to know when a man was holding back oceans behind his eyes.
Theophilus tried to let the memory drift away. The letter was likely destroyed—ruined in water and time. Irretrievable. He leaned back again, exhaling, eyes on the ceiling. Jeffrey mirrored him, both boys staring up like the answers might be carved in plaster.
Then Jeffrey spoke.
His voice low, mournful. "My father… was a cop. He died tryin' to stop a gang fight. Just tryna mediate. Didn't even pull a gun. Just had a soda in his hand. Some guys didn't care. Shot him from across the street."
Theophilus turned his head slowly, listening.
"He used to tell me," Jeffrey continued, "peace costs more than war. But we pay for war anyway."
Silence followed.
Theophilus thought of his own father. Not dead. Not alive. Just somewhere. A ghost that returned only in memory. He remembered the man showing up once, years ago, in primary school. That day had felt like sunlight. But the warmth had never come again.
Maybe his father had tried. Maybe he loved them in ways they couldn't understand. Maybe soldiering left wounds not just on the body, but on the heart—silent, buried wounds that bled in places words couldn't reach.
He thought of his mother. Of his sister. Of how easily love gets tangled in expectation.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Theophilus said, his voice soft. "I don't usually say things like this. I'm not... that guy. But I feel your pain. It had me thinking about my father. Thought… maybe, from one guy to another, I should say something comforting."
Jeffrey gave a dry chuckle and waved it off. "Ain't nothing to say, man. But thanks."
A shared silence settled between them—comfortable, respectful. They both looked up once more.
As Theophilus turned his gaze once more to the ceiling above, the quiet rhythm of the hospital—machines beeping faintly in sync with life, air vents humming softly in mechanical sighs—became the only music his soul could respond to. Silence had many forms, he had come to learn. There was the silence of people who did not care, the silence of halls where no one waited, the silence that screamed in dreams. And then, there was this—this silence that wrapped itself around you like an old coat, familiar, neutral, neither friend nor foe.
His body ached in places it shouldn't. Not just physically—though his arm throbbed with dull, persistent anger—but deeper, somewhere in that place he never had the vocabulary to explain. A quiet pain. The kind that made you stare at things longer than you should. The kind that slowed time until every second felt like an entire page being turned in a book written just for you—and yet you didn't know how to read the language.
He closed his eyes for a moment, but not to sleep. Just to feel. For once, to not calculate, plan, respond, or hold anyone together. For the first time in what felt like forever, Theophilus didn't need to be strong for anyone. There was no little sister tugging at his arm, no mother glancing expectantly his way, no echo of a father's reputation to quietly maintain. There was just him. Bruised. Battered. Alone—but oddly not lonely.
And in that moment, his thoughts slowed.
Who was he, really? Was he a good person? Was he strong only because he had to be, or was he strong because it was in him all along? Did he love his father, or the idea of his father? Did he despise his mother for being too human, too fragile, too lost in her grief? Or did he resent her because she reminded him of himself?
He wasn't sure anymore.
And maybe—just maybe—that was okay.
He had always believed in truth, in principles that could hold the weight of a life. But what truth did he know, really? The world had changed the moment the plane tore through the sky and he found himself cradled by metal and fire. What truths hold when bones break? What beliefs survive when letters vanish in water and you forget how to cry?
Yet as he lay there, one hand resting over his bandaged stomach, he thought: Perhaps the point is not to know the truth, but to live in its pursuit. Not because he would find it, but because the pursuit kept him honest, kept him trying.
And that, perhaps, was enough.
He exhaled slowly. It felt good—like putting down a heavy load you didn't know you'd been carrying. He thought about how often people mistake suffering for failure. Pain for punishment. But maybe, pain wasn't always a consequence. Maybe it was just a sign. A sign that something mattered. That someone mattered. That he mattered.
And so, as sleep began to reach its fingers gently over his mind, he allowed one final thought to float to the surface:
"It's okay to be tired."
Not in the way that people say when they want to be dramatic. But truly tired. Tired of pretending, tired of being strong, tired of wondering if he mattered enough to be loved by someone other than duty. And tonight, for the first time, he would allow himself to rest without apology.
He shifted slowly, his breath catching at the strain in his chest. Jeffrey had already turned over, muttering something in a dream. The lights outside the ward windows painted pale reflections on the floor, like ghostly echoes of moonlight. A car passed far below on the street. Someone laughed too loud near the nurse's station. But in his world, things were going still.
And then he smiled. Just a little. Just enough to matter.
Because he knew now that healing wasn't just about bones—it was about belief.
And maybe, just maybe, if he kept believing in people—flawed as they were—and in himself—broken as he felt—he'd wake up one day and finally feel whole again.
With that, Theophilus let his eyelids fall shut, and like a leaf floating down the quiet stream of night, he drifted—slowly, gently—into sleep.