Nene hums when she washes her face.
It's always the same song—something soft, old-school, in Yoruba or maybe Igbo. I don't know. I never ask.
She's the kind of girl who buys incense, eats cereal with hot water, and leaves sticky notes on the mirror like prayers.
Today's note says:
*"Your heart is not a burden. Let it beat ugly if it must."*
I glance at it, brush my teeth, and try not to exist too loudly.
Nene peeks through the curtain. "Rain again."
"Guess we're cursed."
"Or cleansing," she offers.
Nene believes in things. Stars, crystals, energy. I believe in deadlines, silence, and getting through the day without crying.
But somehow, we coexist.
---
After class, I find a folded paper on my desk.
Nene's handwriting.
**"I read your notebook. I'm sorry.
But also… don't stop writing.
Even if no one claps.
Even if it hurts.
Especially then."**
I should be mad.
But I'm not.
Because it's the first time someone read my pain—and didn't look away.
---
That evening, in the shared kitchen, Nene passes me a bowl of spicy noodles.
She doesn't say anything. Just sits. Hums.
And suddenly the room doesn't feel so loud anymore.
---
Later that night, my phone buzzes.
*TARI*
*_Can I show you something tomorrow?_*
I hesitate.
Then type:
*_Only if it's not your tattoo or your tragic playlist._*
He replies instantly.
*TARI*
*_What if it's both?_*
I don't smile.
But my heart feels lighter.
Just a little.
---