The friendship with Mohammed grew quietly.
There was no particular day I could point to and say, This was when everything changed.
It happened gradually.
One conversation became another.
One text became several.
One missed call became a reason to smile when I saw his name on my phone.
At first, I was careful.
I kept reminding myself that I loved James.
Whatever was happening between James and Alberta, I wasn't going to respond by doing the same thing to him with another man.
That wasn't who I was.
So I drew a line in my mind.
Mohammed was my friend.
Nothing more.
And I made sure James knew it.
Whenever Mohammed called, I told him.
Whenever we had a long conversation, I sometimes mentioned it.
I wasn't hiding anything.
In fact, I was almost overly transparent.
One evening, James and I were together when Mohammed called.
His name appeared on my screen.
I looked at it.
James noticed.
"Who is that?"
"Mohammed."
He looked at me.
"Again?"
I nodded.
"He calls quite often."
"Why don't you answer?"
I shrugged.
"Do you want me to?"
He didn't respond immediately.
I looked at him.
"You don't want me to answer?"
"I didn't say that."
"So?"
"Do what you want."
Those four words sounded simple, but they carried something heavy.
Do what you want.
I had heard that kind of statement before.
It wasn't permission.
It was distance.
I put the phone down.
"I won't answer."
James looked at me.
"Why?"
"Because I don't want you to misunderstand."
He gave a small smile.
"I trust you."
I smiled too.
But inside, I wondered why trusting me seemed easier than respecting my concerns about Alberta.
That thought stayed with me.
Later that night, Mohammed sent me a message asking if I was okay.
I stared at the message for a while.
Then I replied.
I'm fine.
He responded almost immediately.
You don't sound fine.
I smiled.
How could someone I barely knew notice what the person I loved seemed to overlook?
I didn't answer immediately.
Then I wrote:
Just tired.
He didn't pressure me.
He simply said:
Rest. Tomorrow will be better.
It was such a small thing.
But I needed it.
I needed someone who didn't demand an explanation before offering comfort.
Over the next few days, our conversations became longer.
We spoke about school.
Our students.
Family.
Work.
Life.
Sometimes we laughed about things that were completely meaningless.
Sometimes we discussed serious matters.
I learned that Mohammed was observant.
He remembered things I said casually.
If I told him I had a difficult class on Monday, he would ask me about it on Tuesday.
If I mentioned that I had been tired, he would remind me to rest.
Those little things began filling a space inside me.
And I didn't like how much I noticed them.
One afternoon after school, I was walking out when I heard someone call my name.
"Bjei!"
I turned around.
It was Mohammed.
I was surprised.
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you."
I laughed.
"Here?"
"Yes."
"You could have called."
"I wanted to surprise you."
I looked around.
A few teachers were still outside.
"You shouldn't be doing this."
"Why?"
"People will talk."
He smiled.
"Let them talk."
I shook my head.
"Mohammed."
"I'm only visiting a friend."
I looked at him carefully.
"A friend?"
"Yes."
I smiled.
"Okay."
We stood there talking for a while.
He asked about my day.
I told him about a student who had made the entire class laugh.
He laughed too.
Nothing happened.
Nothing inappropriate.
It was simply two people talking.
Yet when he left, I realized I was smiling.
That smile bothered me.
Not because smiling was wrong.
Because I couldn't remember the last time James had made me smile that easily.
That evening, I told James that Mohammed had visited me at school.
His expression changed.
"He came to your school?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To see me."
James stared at me.
I waited.
"You allowed him to?"
I frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
"He came to see me. We talked. That's all."
"You should be careful."
I almost laughed.
The irony was painful.
"You're telling me to be careful?"
"Yes."
"James, I have been careful."
He became quiet.
I didn't want to fight.
So I changed the subject.
But later that night, I thought about his reaction.
Why was he suddenly concerned about Mohammed?
Why did my friendship bother him?
And why did he have the right to feel uncomfortable when I had swallowed my own discomfort so many times concerning Alberta?
Still, I refused to use Mohammed against him.
I didn't want revenge.
I wanted peace.
Days became weeks.
Mohammed continued calling.
Sometimes I answered.
Sometimes I didn't.
Sometimes we texted for hours.
He never demanded anything from me.
That was what made the friendship dangerous in a different way.
It was easy.
There was no pressure.
No interrogation.
No competition.
Just companionship.
And I was beginning to realize how hungry I had been for that.
One evening, Mohammed asked me something.
"Are you happy?"
I paused.
It was such a simple question.
Yet I couldn't answer.
He noticed my silence.
"You don't have to answer."
"No," I said quietly.
He waited.
"I don't know."
"That means something."
I sighed.
"Maybe."
He didn't ask me to leave James.
He didn't tell me that he could treat me better.
He didn't use my weakness against me.
He simply listened.
That night, I cried after our conversation ended.
Not because Mohammed had said anything hurtful.
Because for the first time in a long time, someone had given me room to admit that I wasn't okay.
And I realized something frightening.
Sometimes people don't fall for someone because that person is extraordinary.
Sometimes they fall because that person arrives at the exact moment they are starving for attention, kindness, and understanding.
Mohammed had arrived at such a moment in my life.
And I was beginning to wonder whether friendship would be enough.
I didn't have the answer.
Not yet.
But I knew one thing.
The loneliness that James had created between us was no longer completely empty.
Mohammed was slowly filling it.
And once someone begins filling an empty space, it becomes difficult to pretend the space never existed.