I told myself I was still being loyal to James.
And technically, I was.
I had not kissed Mohammed.
I had not promised him anything.
I had not told him that I wanted a relationship.
I had not even admitted to myself that I was becoming attached to our conversations.
But emotions don't always wait for permission.
Sometimes they simply grow.
Mohammed became part of my routine.
I would wake up and find a message from him.
Good morning. Have a beautiful day.
During lunch, he might ask:
Have you eaten?
After school:
How was your day?
At night:
Get some rest.
Nothing about those messages was inappropriate.
But they made me feel remembered.
And being remembered felt good.
Especially when the person I loved had become increasingly distant.
I still told James.
One morning, I showed him a message from Mohammed.
"Look at what he sent."
James glanced at it.
"Why are you showing me?"
"Because I don't want to hide anything."
He handed my phone back.
"You don't have to report everything to me."
I looked at him.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
His response should have relieved me.
Instead, it made me sad.
There was a time when I thought transparency was the foundation of our relationship.
Now it seemed like he didn't care enough to know.
I wondered whether that was what Bathsheba had meant.
Maybe I had been giving too much of myself to someone who had stopped appreciating it.
One afternoon, Mohammed came to the school again.
This time, he brought something small for me to eat.
I stared at it.
"You didn't have to."
"I know."
"Then why did you?"
"Because I wanted to."
I smiled.
"Thank you."
He sat nearby while I ate.
We talked about everything and nothing.
A few teachers passed and greeted us.
I noticed one of my colleagues watching us.
I immediately understood what she was thinking.
I became uncomfortable.
"You should go."
"Why?"
"People will talk."
He smiled.
"Do you care what people say?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I'm with someone."
His expression changed slightly.
"I know."
That answer surprised me.
"You know?"
"Yes."
"Then why do you keep coming?"
He looked at me.
"Because being your friend isn't wrong."
I had no response.
He was right.
Friendship wasn't wrong.
But the attention was beginning to feel different.
That evening, I told James about the visit.
He became quiet.
Then he asked,
"Does he come to see other teachers too?"
"I don't know."
"Or just you?"
"Probably me."
He looked away.
I expected him to say something.
Instead, he remained silent.
I studied his face.
For the first time in weeks, I saw something I hadn't seen in a long time.
Jealousy.
It was subtle.
But it was there.
"Are you jealous?" I asked.
"No."
I laughed.
"You are."
"I'm not."
"Then why do you look upset?"
"I'm not upset."
I shook my head.
"James."
"What?"
"You can't be angry because someone is giving me attention when you have spent so much time giving your attention elsewhere."
His face became serious.
"Don't bring Alberta into this."
"Why not?"
"Because they're different."
"Are they?"
"Yes."
"How?"
He had no immediate answer.
I didn't continue.
I didn't want another argument.
But that night, I realized something.
Maybe James finally understood what it felt like to watch someone else become important to the person you loved.
The difference was that I had not hidden Mohammed.
James had hidden Alberta.
That distinction mattered to me.
Still, I didn't want jealousy to become the reason I continued talking to Mohammed.
Mohammed deserved honesty too.
So one evening, I told him,
"I don't want to give you the wrong idea."
He was quiet.
"What idea?"
"That this friendship means something more."
He smiled faintly.
"I know you're with someone."
"Good."
"But I enjoy talking to you."
"I enjoy talking to you too."
He looked at me.
"I don't expect anything."
His words made me uncomfortable.
"Then what do you want?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Just friendship."
I nodded.
But I wasn't completely convinced.
There was something in his eyes whenever he looked at me.
Something he wasn't saying.
And perhaps he was waiting for me to say it first.
I continued to keep my distance physically.
But emotionally, I had already started allowing him closer.
That frightened me.
Because I knew how emotional attachment began.
It didn't always start with romance.
Sometimes it started with:
How was your day?
Then:
Did you eat?
Then:
I'm here if you need someone.
Then one day, you realize the person has become the first person you want to talk to when something happens.
Mohammed was becoming that person.
One afternoon, I had a difficult day at school.
A student had caused trouble, and I was exhausted.
I called James.
He didn't answer.
I called again.
Still nothing.
I stared at my phone.
Then Mohammed's name came to mind.
I hesitated.
Finally, I called him.
He answered immediately.
"Bjei?"
The sound of his voice calmed me.
"I'm having a bad day."
"What happened?"
I told him.
He listened.
He didn't interrupt.
When I finished, he said,
"You've done your best. Don't let one difficult day make you feel like you're failing."
I closed my eyes.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
After we ended the call, I sat quietly.
Then I realized something.
I had called Mohammed because James hadn't answered.
That was the part that frightened me.
Not the conversation.
Not the friendship.
The fact that my heart had started reaching for someone else when the person I loved wasn't available.
I promised myself I would be careful.
But promises become difficult to keep when loneliness keeps whispering in your ear.
And Mohammed wasn't asking me to betray James.
He didn't need to.
My loneliness was doing enough work on its own.