I never imagined that Mohammed would become more than just a friend.
If someone had told me that the man I had casually met after school would eventually become such a huge part of my life, I would have laughed.
Life has a strange way of bringing people into your life without announcing what they are there to do.
Sometimes they come to heal you.
Sometimes they come to teach you.
And sometimes, they come to hurt you in ways that make you question your own judgment.
At that time, I didn't know which one Mohammed was.
I only knew that I liked talking to him.
Then one day, during one of our conversations, he mentioned his mother.
Something about the way he described her made me pause.
"What is your mother's name?" I asked.
He told me.
My heart jumped.
"Wait."
He looked at me.
"What?"
I mentioned my mother's name.
His eyes widened.
"You know my mother?"
I laughed.
"Not personally. My mother talks about her all the time."
He stared at me.
I continued.
"She is one of my mother's favorite customers."
Suddenly, everything started making sense.
I remembered my mother always talking about a particular woman who was kind, respectful, and hardworking.
She had spoken about her son too.
She used to say he was calm.
Helpful.
Responsible.
The kind of son who didn't abandon his mother.
And now I was sitting across from that very son.
"You're the one my mother was talking about?" I asked.
He laughed.
"Maybe."
I shook my head.
"This is unbelievable."
We started laughing.
But something changed that day.
The connection felt different.
It wasn't just two strangers who had become friends anymore.
There was a familiar bridge between us.
Our mothers knew each other.
My mother had spoken well about him without even knowing that one day he would become part of my life.
I told him what my mother had said.
He smiled proudly.
"She really said that?"
"Yes."
"What exactly did she say?"
I repeated some of the things I remembered.
He laughed.
"I didn't know your mother noticed me."
"She did."
That conversation brought us closer.
We started talking about our families.
Our childhoods.
Our struggles.
Our dreams.
The things we feared.
The things we wanted to achieve.
I found myself telling him things I hadn't planned to tell him.
And he listened.
There was something comforting about being around someone who seemed to understand.
I didn't know when friendship crossed the line.
There was no dramatic confession.
No special day.
No moment when either of us officially said, Let's be together.
It simply happened.
One day I looked at him differently.
Then he looked at me differently.
And before I realized what was happening, we were already together.
The irony was that James still knew.
I continued updating him.
I didn't want to lie.
I told him Mohammed and I were getting closer.
I told him when Mohammed visited.
I told him about our friendship.
I even told him about the connection between our mothers.
James listened.
Sometimes he didn't say much.
Sometimes he asked questions.
But I could feel something changing between us.
He knew he was losing the version of me who had once centered her entire life around him.
And I knew I was changing too.
My attention was divided.
My heart was confused.
And instead of stopping to understand what I was doing, I allowed myself to move forward.
Mohammed made me feel wanted.
James made me feel uncertain.
That difference mattered.
Then money entered the picture.
At first, it was something small.
Mohammed would call and say he needed help.
I had a small business, and although I wasn't making much, I tried to support him whenever I could.
One day, he borrowed money from me.
He promised to pay it back.
I trusted him.
He didn't.
Then he came again.
I reminded him about the previous money.
"I'll pay you," he said.
"When?"
"Soon."
I believed him.
The next time he needed money, I gave him more.
I didn't stop to calculate how much I had already given him.
I wasn't thinking like a businesswoman.
I was thinking like someone who cared.
Sometimes he would call me from a station.
"Bjei, I'm stuck."
"What happened?"
"I need some money to get home."
"How much?"
He would tell me.
I would send it.
Sometimes I had to take money from my business.
I told myself it was temporary.
I told myself he would return everything.
But the requests didn't stop.
The amount kept growing.
One day, I needed money to buy supplies for my business.
I didn't have enough.
That was when I realized how badly things had become.
Money that should have been circulating through my business had gone into Mohammed's hands.
I had invested in him more than I had invested in myself.
Yet I couldn't see the danger.
I was already emotionally attached.
When someone has your heart, sometimes you stop keeping proper accounts.
You stop asking whether they deserve what you're giving.
You simply give.
Mohammed would come for another loan before paying the previous one.
Sometimes I would remind him.
He would promise.
Sometimes he would become quiet.
Sometimes he would say he was going through difficulties.
And I would feel guilty for asking.
I began helping him again.
And again.
And again.
My business started suffering.
I had less money to restock.
Customers came, but I couldn't always provide what they wanted.
Eventually, the business collapsed.
I remember sitting there looking at what remained.
I had worked so hard.
I had started with almost nothing.
And slowly, everything disappeared.
But even then, I didn't blame Mohammed.
I blamed myself.
I told myself things would get better.
I was in love.
Or at least, I believed I was.
I traveled long distances to see him.
I visited him whenever I could.
His friends knew me.
Whenever I arrived, they teased him.
"Your serious girlfriend is here!"
Sometimes they laughed.
Sometimes they called me his wife.
I smiled.
Deep inside, I felt proud.
I believed I had finally found someone who valued me.
But sometimes, when I was alone, a tiny voice whispered:
Does he love you, or does he love what you can provide?
I ignored it.
I had ignored instincts before.
But this time, I ignored them because I didn't want to lose him.
Meanwhile, James kept trying to hold on.
Behind the scenes, he begged me not to leave him.
"Bjei, please."
"James, I think we should end this."
"Don't say that."
"I've already made my decision."
"No. Give me another chance."
I was torn.
Part of me still loved him.
Another part was already attached to Mohammed.
I felt guilty.
So I began creating distance between myself and James.
I answered his calls less.
I stopped telling him everything.
I convinced myself that I was doing the right thing.
But the truth was painful.
I had not moved from one relationship to another because I had healed.
I had moved because I was lonely.
And loneliness can make the wrong person look like the right one.
I just didn't know how expensive that mistake would become.