It had rained that night—the kind of rain that made the streets glisten and the air smell like old memories. Janessa stood by the window of the teacher's quarters, her fingers curled around a chipped mug of lukewarm tea. The school compound was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of wind brushing past the jacaranda trees.
She hadn't seen him all day. Not properly. Just glimpses—him walking into the staffroom, eyes tired, tie loose. No smiles exchanged. No inside jokes whispered behind lesson plans. Just space… and silence.
But the strange thing was—he still called. Every night. Even if just to say "sleep well." Even if his voice carried the weight of something he didn't know how to name.
Janessa leaned her forehead against the cool glass. She remembered the way he used to pull her close in his sleep, the way his hand instinctively reached out for her when he thought she was too quiet. He never said much, but his care was written in small actions: covering her with a bedsheet, massaging her head, holding her just long enough for her breathing to slow.
She never used to doubt that it was love. Now, she wasn't so sure.
But maybe… love wasn't always fireworks and loud promises. Maybe it was just staying. Returning. Trying again.
She closed her eyes and whispered into the silence, "Don't give up on me just yet."
Chapter Two: The Weight of Quiet
Mikael hated walking past her window.
He always did it too fast, eyes low, heart loud. But he knew she saw him. He could feel her presence like a song he used to know by heart—still there, still sweet, but with too many lyrics lost to time.
Grief had changed him. He hadn't meant to become a stranger. But when his cousin died—and his father's illness worsened—something in him folded inward. He didn't know how to be strong and soft at the same time.
So he stayed distant.
But never too far.
Every night, he checked her last seen, stared at the blinking cursor in their chat, and then forced himself to write something—simple, safe: Sleep well. I love you. Nakupenda.
He didn't know how to say: I miss you. I see your pain. I wish I could hold it all for you.
And maybe he was failing.
But each night, when he closed his eyes, his memory reached for her—the sound of her laughter, the way she curled into his chest like home, the quiet way she made him feel understood without demanding explanations.
He dreamed of her once—crying alone on the staffroom steps. In the dream, he couldn't reach her. Couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
He woke up crying.
Now, even if he didn't say much, even if his words were few, his prayers always began with her name.
Let her know she's loved, even when I don't show it right.
Mikael sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone like it might explain the ache in his chest. The clock blinked 2:13 AM, and outside, the world was wrapped in silence thick enough to drown in.
He'd sent the usual message—"Goodnight, sleep well."
She replied with a simple "You too."
He knew that tone.
He missed her voice when it was soft and playful, not cautious like a door half-shut.
He rubbed his eyes. Work was heavy. Life was heavier. He hadn't told her about the dreams—the ones where his cousin stood by the jacaranda tree, silent, watching. How could he, when Janessa had just buried her own pain?
But Mikael knew he'd been distant. His own silence betrayed him. He didn't know how to carry his grief without letting it spill onto the people he loved. He never had the right words, so he gave her gestures instead. Covering her when she shivered. Stroking her hair when her thoughts ran too wild. Holding her like an anchor, even when the sea inside him was rough.
He missed her. He missed them.
Maybe tomorrow, he'd hold her gaze a little longer. Maybe tomorrow, he'd let her in.