Amanda had always known Trahy as her cousin. That was the story told at every gathering, the bond woven into every introduction: "This is your cousin, take care of each other."
But even as children, something about their closeness had always felt… different.
They weren't bound by blood, only by circumstance. Raised side by side under the same roofs, the same rules, the same family gatherings where Granny Ann's laughter always rose above the clinking of cups. To everyone else, they were cousins. To Amanda, Trahy was something more complicated—an unsolved puzzle that kept tugging at her heart.
She remembered the little things: the way he shielded her from teasing friends, the way he snuck her extra mango slices when Granny wasn't looking, the way his silence often spoke louder than anyone else's words.
Then came the separation. Amanda was shipped off to boarding school—her life drowned in bells, books, and dormitory whispers. Two years of letters that never came, of wondering if he still thought about her the way she thought about him.
Yet even in her busiest days, his memory lingered like a stubborn echo.
Now, stepping down from the matatu that rattled her back home for the holidays, Amanda felt her heartbeat stumble. The familiar scent of dust mixed with rain-soaked earth hit her all at once. The compound looked the same, yet smaller—like time itself had folded it in half.
And then she saw him.
Leaning against the gatepost, arms folded, older now, broader, his gaze unreadable. The boy she remembered was gone; in his place stood someone who filled the space with quiet power.
"Cousin," he greeted at last, the word carrying both warmth… and distance.
Amanda forced a smile. But inside, her heart whispered the truth she wasn't ready to face:
After two years apart, Trahy didn't look like family anymore.
He looked like the one person she never wants to lose