I wasn't heartbroken when I cut off Michael. Honestly, after everything, it had been easier than I expected. It wasn't like I was waiting for him to change or hoping things would work out. Once I made the decision, it was clear. Afterward, I threw myself into preparing for my end-of-semester exams. My life became a quiet blur of studying and reading, and for the first time in a while, everything felt balanced. There were no emotional messes to clean up, no commitments to worry about. Just me, my books, and the steady rhythm of my life.
When the holidays came around, I left the familiar campus life behind and returned home to my mother. The change was refreshing. We spent our days together, just the two of us, doing things I hadn't realized I'd missed. We went to the market where the air was filled with the rich aroma of spices, the colors of fabric and food nearly overwhelming. My mother insisted on taking me up the hills, where we could see the full expanse of our homeland stretching beneath us. The view always reminded me how small we are compared to the land we come from. She told me stories from her childhood, stories I hadn't heard before, stories that brought us closer than ever.
There was so much joy in the simple things—cooking meals side by side, the laughter as we argued over whose turn it was to stir the pot. We spent time with family, helped prepare feasts, and even went to visit the village. I spent hours with my mother, learning about the old traditions, like weaving baskets, making dishes from scratch, and picking fresh fruits off the trees in our backyard. It was the kind of peace I hadn't realized I'd been craving.
When summer ended, I felt ready to face my final year at university. But something was different. Lyon. He was my friend, but this year, things felt… closer. We'd known each other since my first year, but this year, after my female friend left for another university, I started spending more time at his house. It wasn't intentional at first, but his house was so close, and I didn't really have anyone else. It was comforting in a way I didn't want to admit, but it was also starting to get complicated.
We cooked together a lot. We'd start with the basics, then get into spontaneous experiments in the kitchen—laughing at how bad some of our attempts were. Sometimes, we sang while we cooked, not caring about being off-key, just enjoying the ridiculousness of it all. We made goofy videos, the kind that make you cringe but laugh at the same time. I invited him to church a lot, and we'd spend Sundays together—sitting in silence during service, then walking out into the world as if nothing else mattered.
The people in our neighborhood started to talk. To them, we were a couple. It wasn't like we ever said we were, but it felt like it. All the time spent together, the inside jokes, the way we seemed to understand each other without words. To everyone else, it made sense. But to me, it was never that simple.
I started to notice the way Lyon would look at me. It wasn't just the casual glance of a friend. It was different. He would look at me with these eyes, like he was seeing something else in me that I didn't want him to see. At first, I tried to ignore it. But over time, I couldn't deny it any longer. Lyon was still holding onto something—something I couldn't return. I didn't want to hurt him, but I couldn't let myself get dragged into anything else.
I knew it was time to pull away. I couldn't let myself get any more attached. But the thing was, I already had. I went back to his house again and again, even though I knew I shouldn't. Even though I was becoming too comfortable with him. He was my best friend. But I didn't want anything more than that.
Then Valentine's Day came, and Lyon invited me to his house. Something about the way he asked made my stomach churn, and deep down, I knew what was coming. We sat down, and the next words out of his mouth hit me like a ton of bricks.
"Kimbia," he said softly, nervously even, "I love you. I want you to be mine."
The world seemed to stop. I don't even remember breathing. His words echoed in my mind, but I couldn't move, couldn't speak. I wanted to tell him it wasn't like that for me, but all I could do was stare at him. His eyes were full of hope, of longing, of something I wasn't ready to face.
Tears began to well up in my eyes, but they weren't tears of joy. They were tears of bitterness, of regret. I had seen this coming, and now here it was, right in front of me. Our friendship would never be the same again.
Lyon, thinking I was overwhelmed with excitement, waited for my response. He didn't know that all I felt was dread. My heart was pounding in my chest as I stood up, quickly gathering my things. I couldn't bring myself to say anything—couldn't say yes, couldn't say no. All I could do was run.
I rushed out of his house, the weight of what had just happened sinking in with every step I took. That was the last time I saw Lyon that semester. He tried to reach out afterward, but I couldn't bring myself to answer. We lived on the same street, but I didn't want to see him. I avoided him. I left early in the mornings for school, came back late at night. I shut myself off from everything and everyone, pushing away the one person who had always been there for me.
I told myself I was doing the right thing. That I couldn't keep this friendship. I wasn't ready to deal with the complications of love, not now, not ever. Relationships, once romantic feelings got involved, weren't for me. I wasn't built for them.
And so, I ran. Again!