There's a kind of silence that doesn't come from emptiness.
It comes from peace.
It's what I feel now—walking beside Tari, under the early morning sky, hands brushing but not quite touching.
Not yet.
---
Kadeem's threats didn't vanish overnight.
But they lost their power.
Not because I fought harder—but because I stopped fighting alone.
The weight I carried for years is now split between two hands.
Mine.
And Tari's.
It doesn't make it light.
But it makes it bearable.
---
We sit at the edge of the campus garden, knees touching, watching students walk past like nothing in the world is broken.
"Tell me something real," I say.
Tari smirks. "You always want the heavy stuff."
"I live in the heavy."
He pauses, then says softly:
"My dad left when I was eleven. Just never came back. People think I'm the strong one, but most days I feel like I'm faking it."
I nod, not with pity, but with recognition.
"Maybe we're all just performing strength," I whisper. "Like actors who forgot their lines."
---
The conversation drifts to lighter things.
Bad cafeteria food.
Nene's obsession with burning sage.
That one professor who quotes Beyoncé like scripture.
And somehow, between jokes and shared silences…
Tari reaches for my hand.
He doesn't ask.
He just holds it like it's always belonged there.
And I let him.
---
That night, I can't sleep.
Tari's hand on mine replayed in my mind like a loop. Not because it was romantic.
But because it felt… safe.
And that scared me more than anything.
---
*Flashback – Age 17*
When Damilola told me he loved me, I froze.
Not because I didn't feel something.
But because I didn't believe him.
How could he love a girl stitched together with silence?
When he left two weeks later, I told myself I expected it.
But it still broke something I never rebuilt.
---
Back to now.
Tari texts at midnight.
*TARI:* *"You okay?"*
*ME:* *"Overthinking. You?"*
*TARI:* *"Same. Come outside."*
---
I slip into my hoodie, ignoring Nene's knowing smirk, and tiptoe outside.
Tari's waiting under the jacaranda tree near the dorms, hoodie up, hands in pockets.
No words. Just that steady look.
"I'm scared," I whisper.
"Of what?" he asks.
"Of being seen. Of being soft. Of not knowing what to do with kindness."
He steps closer.
"You don't have to know. You just have to stay."
And then, carefully—so gently it hurts—he brushes his lips against my forehead.
Not my lips.
Not my neck.
Just my forehead.
Like he's asking permission, not claiming anything.
---
Something blooms inside me that night.
Not love. Not yet.
But the space where love might grow, if given the chance.
---
The next evening, Tari and I sit on the rooftop of the Fine Arts building, feet dangling, air heavy with twilight and unspoken thoughts.
He's quiet.
Not moody—just deep in that place where memory lives.
"You ever keep something so long it starts to rot inside you?" he finally says.
I glance at him. "Every day."
He exhales slowly. "There's something I haven't told you."
I wait.
He runs a hand over his face.
"When Elijah died… I wasn't just sad. I was angry. Because the night before, we fought. I said some awful stuff. Told him I was tired of cleaning up his mess. That he should just go."
He looks away, eyes glassy.
"And then he did. Forever."
Silence settles.
Not cold.
Just honest.
I reach for his hand. "You didn't kill him, Tari."
"But I didn't save him either."
"You were a kid," I whisper. "Hurting people say things. It doesn't mean you stopped loving them."
He wipes his face, but a tear slips anyway.
I don't say anything else.
Just hold him.
The strongest boy I know.
Held together by guilt and grace.
---
That night, I write.
Not just about pain.
But about second chances.
About how two broken people can hold each other without shattering further.
---
*Excerpt from Ayanna's journal:*
*He didn't kiss me tonight.
But grief did.
It kissed both of us on the mouth, and we didn't turn away.
That has to count for something.*
---