It would be absurd for me to start this without acknowledging that you are slowly, entirely and undeniably, etching yourself in my heart.

What is love really if it isn't the one that catches you off guard, that has you looking for them in every room, that makes you see them in the constellations of the stars and in the magnitude of the beauty of the moon? What is love if it isn't the one that bangs the doors of your heart loudly, incessantly wishing to push its way in and shove all logic and reason away? What is love if it isn't the one that is gnawing at me every time I see you?

If I am to mention the number of times you have said my name and my heart skipped a beat, I'd probably lie and say none. It feels forbidden to think about you in that way, for my heart to respond to the sound of your voice with eagerness that exceeds the one I'm allowed to. There are times my heart demands to break through the constraints, to defy the rules and to let go of all uncertainty in hopes of finding itself undone in your hands.

However,

a lot of the times are the ones when I muster all strength and restraint and gladly accept what of you I am only allowed access to.

I see you in the way the sun rises. You engulf the uncertainty of life in wholeness and steadiness, you fill every room with your presence—you don't even mean to sometimes—you are poetic in the way you announce yourself.

I think of you in the way I think of my favorite song. I wish to memorize you, to hum the facets of your personality at random times during the day, to be moved by the contents of your words in the way my favorite song moves me, to hold something you said in passing the way I hold my favorite lyric. I think you are slowly becoming my favorite song, my favorite lyric, my favorite line.

I wish you'd look at me the way you look at her. I wish you'd look for me in every room as you do her. I wish you'd talk about me the way you talk about her. I wish your eyes would light up because of me and not her. And honestly maybe that's selfish of me to say, but I wish it was me and not her. In the hidden "I'm happy for you" I hold scathing jealousy, so vile because I know I'm not happy for you—I'm not happy for you because it's not me you're yearning for.

I've counted the times I've mastered the movement of your body. How your hand involuntarily moves to the back of your head when you're becoming overstimulated. How your nose flares when you're trying not to be rude and spiteful. How the corners of your mouth lift when you're telling a lie. How your lips move when you talk. I've counted the times my eyes have gone to your lips when you're talking about something you find exciting. I've counted the number of times I've wished your lips would wrestle with mine. How it'd feel like to silence the world and listen only to the sound of our hearts beating.

I've thought of you in ways friends shouldn't think of friends. I've thought of you in unholy ways. I've thought of how easy my body would fit in yours, how natural my skin would feel to be under you, over you, above you... in you. I've thought of how easily I'd hand my body as a canvas to you, how poetic it would be for your sweat to trickle down my body like paint trickles down a canvas. You don't know this, but I think of your hands tracing down the most intricate parts of my body, exploring my insecurities with curiosity and hunger. I think of you in unholy ways.

And in the off chance that I don't get to experience you in the way I wish I could, may I bump into you in another life with a chance of loving you without restraint, without inhibitions, without control. May I find you in another universe where you're made for me, where you're meant for me.

I hope you look at me one day and realize that friends don't look at friends this way.

Always, in ways you don't know,

Shan.

I had a crush. On a man. Surprise, surprise!

It's been ages since I had a real, solid crush on a man, so you know it was obviously a big deal. A few of you followed through my four-day ecstatic delusional trance and for that, I'm grateful. Thank you for standing by me regardless. Now, do I wish the crush wasn't short lived? Absolutely. Is it my fault the crush was short lived? Absolutely.

I think there's a level of classism I have as I approach dating. I don't know if classism is the word for it, or maybe it's an unrealistic preferential attitude. I'd go with the latter mainly because I'm trying to ease the blow the term classism is threatening to blast me with.

Before I fill you in on how my four-day crush magically evaporated—I will use magically evaporated because I don't have the guts to say that I actively and intentionally deactivated all feelings—allow me to paint the picture of how my unrealistic preferential expectations dictates who I date and who I don't.

I am very picky. I'd like to say I'm pathologically picky. What this looks like for me is that I will gladly, openly and justifiably disregard someone because of something small. A big catalyst for me to disregard a connection is bad grammar. I will be open enough to say that I once cut off all communication with a guy because he sucked at texting, he sucked at forming grammatically correct sentences and most of all, he'd ‘am’ instead of ‘I’m’ every single time.

Why does grammar matter to me? Why am I so fixated on the ability of a man to form proper sentences? Why English of all languages? I mean, why not how well he speaks Kiswahili or better yet, his mother tongue?

Do you see how weird that is? That even before I explore a man's personality, I'll first look at how well he can articulate himself in English and then decide whether I want to continue exploring our connection. Shoot me please, my priorities seem to be misplaced.

Here's the thing, I value conversations more than anything. For this particular reason, I would like for my partner and I to banter in a way we mutually understand or better yet, for him to at least share the same sense of humor as me. Is my intellectual preference hinged on prejudice more than it is actually hinged on a genuine inclination towards a particular preference? I don't know. I honestly don't.

I draw myself to the school of thought that intelligence is based on how articulate someone is, their education background, how many books they have read. If I dare to introspect, I'd say that is probably the most maladaptive way of thinking I've accustomed myself to.

Growing up, my mother strived for us to be exposed to various ways of life apart from our own. She wanted us to blend in every room without people knowing we put buckets in various parts of our house because our roof would leak everytime it rains. No, she definitely wanted us to be out there and look the part. She fought for a place for us in private schools, she'd pay TV subscriptions just so we could learn how to converse in English and most of all, she cultivated our love for literature. I don't think she had planned for our love for literature to sprout as immensely as it did, but it did. For me, books allowed me to think and expect of a world outside my own. I think I over-romanticized my expectations at some point.

Now as an adult, I think I have internalized classist inferiority. I think there's a part of me that grew up internalizing I was lesser because of my class and this made me want to fit in more, to associate with this class I had been sold to.

It's such a double-edged sword because it has allowed me to grow intellectually—that, I can't take for granted. However, at the same time, it has filled me with projected prejudice towards people and that has transcended to how I approach interpersonal relationships and in this case specifically—romantic relationships.

So now, you probably have an idea on what happened with the guy I was massively crushing on. I can see your cup is half empty though so let me pour you all the tea.

This man—who I genuinely don't have a name to—is an absolute man. He is tall, very tall to my 5’2 self. He has a beautiful smile, he is clean, his nails are cut short, his hair groomed—he’s just super put together. He's calm, you know the kind of calm that would hold your nervous system steadily in all its entirety—that kind of calm.

He walks in such a way that professes a quiet confidence in his masculine. This man walks like he knows who he is. Dare I say, I was attracted to that walk as a completely independent entity. He greets people, he says thank you, he is kind, he is composed even when faced with troublesome people— I know this because I have been actively watching him. He stands with his hands behind his back which I found oddly funny because I do that too. He can't stand in one place for too long, he'll stomp his feet, walk in circles — he loves movement. I like that.

Up close, he'll look at you like he's trying to unravel your soul. He speaks with his eyes. I think it was very easy for me to know he was growing fond of me just by how he was looking at me. All this to say, he is a man. He is a man who is confident in his own skin. A man who knows just how worthy he is, a man in tune with himself. There's absolutely nothing wrong with this man's exterior. Nothing.

But…

Here's probably where you'll judge me and honestly, I'll take it.

In the early days of developing a crush, there's probably one medium of communication—eye contact. I have this thing called the under one, over five rule, and here's how it goes; eye contact for a second of less communicates disinterest—that’s a no go zone. On the other hand, eye contact for more than five seconds makes you look too available, too desperate—You don't want that, especially in the early days.

Anyways, I digress.

Eye contact was the medium of communication for those four days until I decided to disregard the playbook by attempting to walk up to him and say hi. Well that didn't go as planned.

I was walking up to him when I realized he was speaking to someone and for a minute there, for a split second, I had one of those out of body experiences people have as soon as I heard him speak. His accent—my good lord, I wish I didn't have to write this—but his accent was heavily pregnant with phonological errors. I can't remember what he was saying exactly, but I heard a couple of ‘brack’, ‘frash’, ‘twelof’. I just-…I can't.

As soon as I heard all that, I knew that was the end of the journey. I don't even think the bus left the station to begin with.

Now please hear me out, as I took those two, three steps away, my mind had already examined, analyzed and got to a peer reviewed conclusion that this had become uncharted territory. On my third step, the crush I had, accompanied with all the deluded feelings were celestially carried away and I was immediately transported back to reality.

I'm so embarrassed at myself right now, I can't believe I'm writing this.

Why did those simple phonological errors bother me? Why did his accent lead me to thinking less of him intellectually? Why exactly does it matter to me that his dialect should be perfect? Sigh.

I think for me, right now, I'm called called to actually examine myself, and seriously at that. I pride myself at refusing to bow down to systemic classism but it turns out I am a slave to intellectual classism and I think it will make me miss out on so many beautiful connections, romantic or otherwise.

Acha nirudi drawing board, tõndu ma!

Self awareness is such a pain in the bum sometimes.

Do you relate to this or am I actually the problem?

I took a few seconds before slowly pulling away from her, searching her eyes, something I have loved doing because Sasha speaks with her eyes before she speaks with words.

There was a sympathetic look in her eyes. I feel like these past few days have thrown me off completely and I can't tell you just how much I just want us to go back to how we were. We were happy, we were in love, I don't know what happened. Matter of fact, now that I think about it, Sasha hasn't been herself for three weeks now. She's lost all the light in her eyes and I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel helpless because it felt like everything I have been trying wasn't really getting to her. I hate seeing her like this.

"Hey, hey... it's okay. You can talk to me Sasha, please don't shut me out". I pleaded, cupping her face with my hands trying as much as I could to sound reassuring even though I was internally dying.

"Can...can we go inside.?" She said with a dead smile as she opened the door to her house and my heart clenched a bit when I got in because the last time I was here we were making cinnamon rolls laughing at some lame dad jokes she was making. Now, this feels like uncharted territory, a house I'm familiar with now feels foreign.

I watched Sasha fidget nervously with her hands. She'd always do that when she had something important to say. She'd do this anytime she'd use my credit card to buy herself books and bags without informing me. I smiled at the memory of that.

"You're doing that thing with your hands Sash, have you used my credit card again?" I said with a feeble smile, desperately hoping the joke could hold the storm but she just looked at me with a forced weak smile.

She cleared her throat nervously, I could tell she was battling with whatever she wanted to tell me.

"Would you...would you like something to drink, I have soda, juice, and that smoothie you like is still in the fridge, I can pour it out for you, if you want. I don't have anything to eat because I haven't really -" She nervously wandered, circling the truth she didn't want to hear herself say.

"Sasha, I'm okay. Please talk to me." I said while holding her hand signaling that I was here for anything she'd have to say.

Honestly there's nothing I wouldn't want to work through with this woman. I can't think of anything that we can't surmount.

"Tevin... I have cancer." She dropped it. The truth she's been circling for weeks was just dropped there, on her bed, with my cold hands in hers. She looked at me with pained tenderness, sympathy for me. For me? Why would she feel sorry for me? No, no it can't be.

"Wha-....Sasha what?" I asked sorrowfully, taken aback because I would have thought about everything else, anything else, just not this. I couldn't hold back the tear that fell, betraying me entirely because of just how strong I was trying to act.

My mind flooded with so many questions, so many ways we could combat this. People get through this, I was sure we could too.

"Sasha it's okay, we can work things out. I've saved up just enough, I have a really good job now. We'll find you the best doctors. A friend of mine knows a couple of doctors, I'm sure we'll work things out. Sasha... Sasha look at me...hey, we'll work it out okay?" I rambled as I clenched to her arms helplessly, but she just sat there, stone-cold stiff, looking at me with tears in her eyes.

She looked at me like she was already saying goodbye, with a trembling smile, as she alternated between our cupped hands and me, almost begging me to be okay. I was far from okay, a part of me just died, I wasn't okay.

"I... I have three months to live. It's Glioblastoma . The headache thing we've been trying to work through is Glioblastoma Tevin." She whispered painfully.

In that given moment, I can't tell you what hurt me most—the robbing timeline that she was left with or the fact that she looked at me with quiet resignation, a look that said she had accepted that this was already it. I don't think the universe got the memo that I needed to spend the rest of my life with this woman,but here we are, trying to fit forever in a couple of weeks. How did we even get here?

"Sasha we can still try, we can still put you through treatment. I heard people can defy the timelines, we can fight our way out of this Sasha." I pleaded desperately.

She looked at me and shook her head in surrender, a signal that she wasn't going to try to fight it, a signal that she had made peace with it, that this was it for her and she was okay with that.

I can't tell you exactly what it felt like seeing her resign, the closest I can get to explaining how it felt was being thrown into wallowing grief of someone who is sitting next to you. In that moment, I wasn't reliving all the memories we had, I was picturing what life would look like without her and that, that broke me in ways that words themselves can't explain.

I just sat there, I didn't fight it because it felt like this was a losing battle anyways. I didn't protest because she had already probably fought with the possibilities herself and settled on one that she'd stand behind. I just sat there, looking at her slowly caressing my hands, and in the silence woven with defeat and brokenness she finally spoke up, looking at me with quiet gratitude, a small frail smile on her face as if she had already said goodbye to me in her heart.

"I know...I know we said that we'd spend the rest of our lives together, but this is the rest of my life Tevin and I'm so glad I get to spend it with you. We've never been the ones to follow rules, we're not textbook—I love that about us by the way—so if we said forever, this is forever for us. I didn't want to tell you because I knew just how broken you'd be, I'd be robbing you of the forever that we dreamt of and I'm sorry Tevin, I really am. I want forever to be the next three months, let's spend it together. Let's spend the rest of my life together Tevin."

I pulled her in for a hug, I couldn't hold back the gut-level sobs that I let out. This moment was a mosaic of everything we would live out for the next few months —gratitude,grief,pain, acceptance but most of all, love. If this was forever for us, then we'll make forever count.

"I love you Sasha, in this forever we have and in the forever we dreamt of, I love you, always." I muffled in her shoulder.

"I love you Tevin, now and always." She whispered gently, cupping my face in her ever so cold hands.

We spent the next few weeks doing everything we were doing throughout our relationship— driving, baking, marking restaurants off our bucket list—we loved doing this.

With each passing week, I found myself appreciating the life I've gotten to live with Sasha. Meeting her three years ago was something out of a romcom—and I find romcoms insufferable—but I loved that she likened us to a romcom, pretty ironic.

The long drives we did around town were probably her favorite. She was the designated DJ—she'd only play her songs though, and her songs became my songs and at some point, after practically begging, my songs became hers too. We'd talk about everything, from lazy conversations about who watched the best childhood shows to mind-bending ones about the systems of the world — everything. I could talk about anything with Sasha, I knew it the moment I saw her, I could tell she had depth.

My favorite thing to do was alternate between baking cinnamon rolls at her place. The first time we tried making them three years ago at my place, we ended up almost burning the whole place down. She was the one making them by the way, let it be known out there. She argued that it was probably the oven at my place and she convinced herself that it was in fact the oven at my place. I remember giving in to her argument and suggested that we try making them at her place and when we did, she wouldn't drop it for weeks—they turned out just perfect. I loved seeing her win the silly arguments she'd make up. That's how cinnamon Friday was born.

For us, it wasn't just tradition, it was a core ritual we'd do to remain grounded, to remain a team. We'd be knee deep in arguments, not talking to each other at all but we'd still make cinnamons on Friday. It was a constant reminder that we were, and still are a team. I loved her for that—her ability to separate us from our little conflicts, made everything easier.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't bargaining with reality, there was a deep unsettling grief in just seeing her slowly deteriorating. Her eyes slowly losing life as much as she tried her best to hold it together, her feet taking less steps by the day, her body looking more and more frail. I bargained, I really did. What if something happened and the tumor just disappeared, what if I prayed, I heard about people who pray and the whole thing just gets washed away, so why wouldn't that happened to us? What if she'll live past the one month we have left? I battled with so many questions. I had to grieve her slowly, in portions, and that ruined me.

As we're sitting here, on a cinnamon Friday, I’m deciding to soak this in—what we have—knowing that we still have a month together lessened the burden of having to think about life without her.

"Make the best rolls today, try and beat the ones I made last week and I might just have to give up my title to you." Sasha said with a grin on her face as I went to put the rolls in the oven.

"What title are you talking about, I didn't know we had one!" I shouted sheepishly from the kitchen.

"The cinaboss title, duh. That's a household name Tevin, you would know if you actually made good rolls." She retorted playfully followed by a giggle I could hear from the kitchen.

I turned the oven on and went back to the living room to see her writing something on a piece of paper.

"Are you already writing your designation to me? Because you know those rolls are coming out perfect so you might as well just write it in advance." I playfully said while walking towards her.

She looked taken aback at first and stashed the piece of paper in her pocket quickly before turning to look at me with a grin on her face.

" You can't be the cinaboss Tevin, you make horrible rolls." She said with a chuckle as she wrapped her arms around my neck and gave me a mischievous smile. She's having fun with this, and I love it.

We spent the next few minutes talking about about the bake off and how enthusiastic she was seeing the show for the first time. At some point she looked unwell, but she quickly brushed it off saying it was fatigue. The oven went off interrupting our debate of what is considered the best pastry—a debate she'd win for sure.

"Okay, let's see if you'll be the new cinaboss." She said as she gestured me to go to the kitchen to take the rolls out.

"You know that I will". I said with a chuckle as I walked to the kitchen.

I heard her coughing from the kitchen as I took the rolls out.

"You okay, Sash?" I called out from the kitchen.

No answer.

I tasted a small piece of one of the rolls and I grinned. They turned out better than hers from last week. That title is definitely mine.

"Babe, I think we have a new cinaboss." I hollered from the kitchen as I walked into the living room.

She wasn't seated where I left her.

She was there, on the floor convulsing.

Her limbs were thrashing against the floor and the sound of her teeth chattering made my stomach turn.

"SASHA! Sash, please..." I cried out as I ran towards her convulsing body.

I had prepared for this, I researched on this just in case it might happen but everything just got lost the minute I saw her there. I laid her head on my lap as I quickly picked my phone to call an ambulance.

“He...hello, please my girlfriend is having a seizure. Primark apartments across diamond mall.... please hurry." I choked out.

I held her, gently assuring her it would be fine but it felt like I was trying to assure myself it would be fine. She'd be fine... it's okay, it's just a seizure, it's part of the illness.

The ambulance got here in a matter of minutes and they strapped her on a stretcher and put a mask on her face. I was feeling a lot of things at this moment.

We were fine...we were doing fine just now.

I sat there, helplessly pleading with the medics to try and keep her alive, I needed her alive. The ride to the hospital felt like centuries but when we got there, she was immediately carried into the emergency room, seeing her being raced down the hall on that stretcher made me sick.

I sat on the bench just outside the room, hands shaking, knees pressed together, fidgeting, wondering how long they were taking in there.

Interrupting my spiralling was the doctor who came out of the ER. I stood up immediately and rushed towards him.

"How's... how's she? Is she okay now? Did the seizure subside?" I frantically asked trying to push my way to the ER.

"Sir, we're sorry but-" he said before I cut him off.

No.

"It's okay, there's nothing to say sorry for , we knew the seizures would come we just didn't think it would be this soon." I said helplessly completely in denial of what he was trying to say. There's no way.

"Sir, we're sorry but she didn't-" He continued.

"I read that the first seizure is always the tough one, we can work through the other ones. She still has a month doc, she still has a month." I choked out, I felt all the strength leave my body as I latched on the doctor's shoulder pleading with him, desperately hoping he won't say it.

"I'm sorry, but she didn't pull through sir." He said sympathetically as he brought me in for a full embrace.

As he patted my back, life was taken out of me bit by bit. I wailed, pleaded incessantly that they say she's okay. Nothing. She was gone. Sasha was gone.

"She had this note in her pocket that I think you should have." He said quietly as he pulled a note from his pocket.

He left me there—with two more taps on my shoulder—he left, leaving me alone in this hallway full of nurses running, people coming in and out. I looked at the note...careful not to open it yet—I couldn't bring myself to—as I walked into the room she was in.

I walked in there and in that moment, I'd like think a part of me died seeing Sasha laid there, in my big t-shirt that she had refused to throw away because it was the first t-shirt I gave her, her hair in the messy bun that she'd always wear, it was like she was still here, but she wasn't. Her face held so much peace, I felt content that she held onto peace even in her death.

Her death. I never thought I'd say that.

I walked towards her, holding her hand, looking at her, and I broke down right there. I laid my head in her chest and wailed, she was really gone. I cupped her face with my hands, the note intertwined with my fingers, and just appreciated the beauty she carried to the very end.

"You're so beautiful my love, so beautiful." I whispered weakly, my hands tracing her cheek.

"I love you Sasha, with everything I have, I love you. Please rest knowing that I love you, I have loved you for the rest of your life. Please look after me as I love you for the rest of mine". I choked out weakly with a frail smile on my face.

With one hand cupping her face, I mustered the courage to open the note.

I'll love you until I'm food for the worms to eat, till my fingers decompose. Till my fingers decompose Tevin.

I held onto that note with everything in me. In that moment, every fragment of my existence knew it had loved just as much as it had been loved .

Their kind of love 💌

Tevin was hard to write, I couldn't separate myself from his grief, from his love for Sasha and from the uncertainty that life had for him. However, he loved, to the end. So if you can, if it finds you, love to the end. Love till your fingers decompose.

With love,

Shan, Sasha and Tevin.

Oh-

And most importantly,

Noah Kahan (my muse for this)

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"Tevin, I need to tell you something." I said looking everywhere else but him. He was talking about a car he saw on his way here, there was always a childish excitement to him anytime he'd talk about cars and everytime he did, I'd admire how excited he was without understanding a word he'd say. Today, I was coldly disinterested. The decor of this restaurant seemed more interesting than what he was talking about. I didn't want to pay any attention to him, lest I'd throw myself down the hole I've spent weeks digging myself out of. I still love him, I can be everything else, but I'm not a liar—especially to myself. I still love him, right now, in this restaurant,even though I'm feigning disinterest—I still love him.

He stopped mid-sentence, his big loud smile falling on cue. I would like to say that in this moment, he knows what's coming. His eyes whisked away every softness they had to them and that, that made my heart jump in excruciating pain.

He cleared his throat in such a corporate way, I don't know how to explain it but it felt so rigid. "Sasha, is everything....is everything okay? " My name. I forgot how my name sounds slipping off his tongue. There it was, that skip thing my heart did a minute ago. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were fixed on my face I could literally feel the piercing glare. I stared at the napkin laid on my lap, obviously completely unaware of the weighing tension hovering over this table like it was supposed to save me from what was happening right now.

"Sasha, what's going -" I cut him off before he could finish.

"We're breaking up." I snapped. I didn't have the decency to ask, or to hold space for deliberation, I was simply stating that our three year old relationship had come to an end... abruptly. If I have decided to be brutal, I might as well be disgustingly brutal.

I could see his eyes search mine, trying to look for the slightest hint that this was some sort of joke, but I looked at him—for the first time tonight —with teary eyes, paradoxical to the certainty that they held, and I think he knew this was not some kind of prank. I meant it. He sucked a breath and leaned back to his chair and let out a painful disbelieving scoff.

The silence that followed later was deafening, all we did was look at each other. The eyes that once danced together in love now mellowed with pain and betrayal. We would sit and look at each other in silence, heavy laden with love that the only thing we could do is smile and stare at each other, now we're sitting here—in this half empty fancy restaurant I chose for God knows what reason—slowly seeing each other drown in pain.

"We're breaking up." I breathed out, fighting with everything I had not to cry as I gathered my things to leave. I don't know why I said it again. It felt like I was trying to convince myself, to put it out there again just in case I'd take my word back. And like the shameless coward I was, I stood up ready to leave.

"Sash please" Tevin breathed out, his voice breaking as he extended his hand to hold me. His hand weakened by his pain didn't stand a chance to do anything else but brush through my arm. I shut my eyes as his hand touched mine, internally wincing at some imaginary pain that caused, and just walked away.

Every step felt like uprooting myself from the ground, like I was trying to save myself from quicksand —we all know how that goes. After seconds that felt like centuries, I got hit by air that immediately cued my tears. Involuntary tears are always the one that hold so much pain. I didn't care that people looked at me as they passed by, I didn't care that I looked like a fool, I didn't care that there could possibly be someone at a far distance recording me because what is the world right now if there isn't someone holding a phone waiting for something peculiar to record. I just didn't care. It felt like everything had just crumbled down, pieces of everything laying on my feet looking at me like the villain that I am. Maybe I am.

I tossed again, I've lost count of just how much I've done this. I watched as the day slipped away, the sun setting made way for the loneliness that followed. They say there's a certain level of loneliness that hits you at night, I didn't know it until I had to spend one after our breakup.

Tevin is the love of my life, he has been since I saw him walking through the library down the street. The door itself calls you to look because of the bell strategically placed behind it, this time I wasn't looking at just anyone — I was looking at the love of my life. He carried himself with so much poise, I could tell he held good conversations just by looking at him. I followed him with my eyes—gawking really— as he walked towards the fiction aisle. As if sensing eyes on him, he turned to look straight at me. Of all the people in the room he looked at me. That made my heart jump a little bit. I immediately looked away with a smile on my face, wishing I could plant my face on the book I was reading that was beginning to become far less interesting.

A few seconds later, he casually sat across from me. Directly across from me. I lifted my eyes and looked at him through my glasses and he smiled before cracking his book open like this was just another random Wednesday. This wasn't just another random Wednesday for me. I couldn't make it past the paragraph I was reading, I was constantly reading and re-reading sentences but I couldn't tell you what the sentence itself was talking about. I knew he was the love of my life from then, and honestly, it felt like he did too.

I sighed, the recollections I was having from the onset of our relationship were so unbearable. After a while, I took advantage of the strength I garnered to clean my house and take a shower hoping it would bring life back to me—nothing. For the first time in three days I switched my phone on. Not a word from him. Maybe that's for the better. Maybe he realized he deserves better. Maybe he does deserve better. I connected a few songs on my TV to get me through the night and I slipped back into my depressive bed.

The universe has a way of working things out, sometimes for your good but sometimes not in your favor and when I heard that knock on my door, I couldn't tell which way the universe meant. I knew the knock, he had a way of knocking that was just unique to him.

When I heard the knock, everything seemed to stop. My heart started racing almost immediately and I couldn't shake the shiver that ran through my spine. He knocked again. I didn't know what to do. Should I open it? Should I shut him off? Why was he here in the first place? I couldn't face them, not in this state.

He knocked for the third time and after a few seconds, I heard him walking away. I can't tell you what happened between deciding not to open that door to me opening it, but I opened the door. I did. Instinct. Longing. Desperation

I opened the door and he stood still, daring not to turn around just yet. He just stood there. My eyes were hijacked by the tears already welling up, I could feel my legs giving out, I needed this man the way dry ground longs for the slightest drop of water

He deeply inhaled before turning around to face me. It's almost as if seeing his face made me more helpless, more broken.

His blood-shot eyes, pierced through mine and for a second there, I felt comfort knowing that he was just as miserable as I was.

"Sash-" he spoke, getting choked up as he took strides towards toward me. I just stood there, watching him walk down the corridor like he was on a desperate pilgrimage for me. He crushed himself onto me needfully, helplessly in a soul crushing hug as he completely became undone, bare and entirely submitted to the sobs that he let out. Sobs that felt like they were demanding to be delivered here, on this corridor, with me...to me.

I just stood there, statue-stiff in his arms. I was too numb to move, the only thing that I afforded to accord that moment were the tears that fell down incessantly on my emotionless face, daring not to move lest I end up being the one latching longingly on him and how selfish of me to make this about me.

As we stood in that position, in that cold dark corridor full of unspoken weight, the universe decided to want in. The song that we first kissed to three years ago on this same corridor, the one we'd randomly play first thing anyone of us connected to his aux as we took drives around town, the song that spoke and said more than we could ever say, the song that become a private understanding of our kind of love—that song —started playing.

(Everywhere, everything - Noah Kahan)

It's been a long year

Would we survive in a horror movie?

I doubt it, we're too slow moving

We trust everyone we meet

And just like that, the pieces I had tried to pick up, the front I was trying to put, everything came crushing down on me when our song started playing and in that moment, I gave in, I gave up. We latched on each other, no one strong enough to carry the other's soul, both too needful, broken, desperate. We stood there, our souls exchanging brokenness, bartered brokenness

"Tevin.... there's something you should know."

I struggled to mutter those words knowing that there won't be any more running, no hiding, no withering away. As I stood there, waiting for him to say something, anything, I knew that if there's anyone I would rather do this with, it was him.

Our song 💌

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I was seven years old when I looked at my aunt and I innocently asked "mbona mum ananichukia?". Looking back I genuinely wish I could give that little girl a hug. I didn't have the best relationship with my mum in the earlier years of my life and if there's something my psych 101 class taught me, is that those are the important years of a child's emotional development, I missed the bus.

I don't blame my mum honestly, she had it rough. She had me when she was so young, still trying to make sense of life and just like that there was a being growing inside her. She also left my biological dad before I was able to even understand what was happening and I think she carried that loss with her, with me, to me.

She was always so bitter, constantly comparing me to other kids, telling me I wasn't good enough. She'd tell her fellow chama women how much of a bad kid I was, and honestly growing up I tried to bargain with that — maybe I was actually a bad kid, maybe I deserved to be told everything she told me.

I think for me, if I can walk down memory lane and pinpoint exactly where the wound got deeper, it'd be when she first told me she'd kill me, bury me and forget about me after two weeks.

"Nitakuua, nikuzike na nikusahau na wiki mbili."

I was that disposable. I wish she said it once, I'd argue it was probably just words lashed out in the heat of the moment, but she said that countless times.

That would probably be the first time I felt an excruciating pain that I couldn't quite articulate, a pain that has stayed with me and morphed into something I have lived trying to explain until one night, staring at the ceiling in my small studio after a day of endless classes, I was finally able to put a name to it—maternal ambivalence.

My greatest defense mechanism is probably intellectualization. I wouldn't say this out loud but I feel like I took clinical psychology in uni to escape hurting by drowning myself with information about my hurt. I think because of this, it felt good to finally put a name to my pain, almost as if it would magically disappear upon the awareness of it. It didn't, it's still here and I don't know what to do with it.

Maternal ambivalence is this tacky state of having superimposed feelings of hatred and love for one's child. It's this push and pull of emotions where you love your child but then hate them at the same time. You love motherhood but hate it at the same time.

I wouldn't want to say I'm going to be an indifferent mother, my mother was not. She loved me at some point but despised me with just the same magnitude. Right now, she's my best friend, back then I couldn't even look her in the eye because of how terrified I was of her. So no, I don't want to say I'll be indifferent toward my children.

I started tolerating the child-free conversation at 21, now, I'm stuck in this deep-rooted fear of motherhood because I genuinely don't want to be a bad mum.

I want you to know that I'm not speculating I'll be a bad mum, I know I'll probably be one. This cliche line of you become what you hate has never been more relatable.

I love kids, you should see me with them. I'm the favorite cousin among the little ones, always playing games, adjusting to their gen-alpha lingo, fun and relatable—I am so good with children and I love them so much but the thing is, that doesn't even move me enough to think about having one of my own.

My cat Thando has experienced a fair share of my vile maternal side and I think for me, my relationship with my cat was the absolute corroboration of what I have been aware of. Thando was seemingly scared of me, it would take just one look from me and he would cower away from me to hide under my wardrobe. I'd scream and lash out at him for spilling milk almost forgetting he has a brain the size of a walnut. Then one day, I said something that left a bitter taste in my mouth—regret, familiarity.

"Nitakufungia nje uende ukue stray". Hmm, there it was. There she was—her mother's daughter.

I loved Thando, I really did. We'd snuggle in bed together, he'd watch movies with me, he knew when I was unwell... I pretended to have a seizure one day and he bit my arm to try and save me—he was that amazing. I loved him, I really did, I just didn't love who I turned to be with him and I think for me, I don't know who I'll turn to if I have children of my own.

When you're surrounded with hate, you embody it's principle, you unconsciously start standing for it as much as you vow you're not like that—trust me, you are like that, you're definitely like that.

Truth is, I'm scared I won't be able to love my children the way children should be loved because I don't have the slightest idea how they should be . I'm scared I won't be able to create a space for them to express themselves without feeling like they're violating me. I'm scared I'll get indifferent along the way, distant and apathetic towards humans whose existence is solely dependent on me.

So now, at 22, I'm still figuring out if I genuinely want to have children. I'm aware enough to know that running is easier, it's easier to remain childless with the excuse of childhood trauma that you don't want to pass down. However, as much as I'd like to run, I want to heal just as much.

I don't ever want to blatantly spat at my daughter telling her I'd kill her, bury her and forget her in two weeks.

I am sat directly across this man in this cute slow-moving cafe, he's talking about something I can't quite understand—probably because I'm not really paying attention. I met this man in church. I remember it was probably my second Sunday attending church and he walked up to me to ask if I needed any help. I think he could tell I was a bit lost and confused. From then, conversations flowed, stories were told, I learned that he got born again in highschool and has been serving since then. When he asked about me, I chuckled nervously. It's not that I'm not confident to give him "the story", it's just that my story is probably not as smooth as his.

You see, God for me has always been somewhere, etched in every chapter of my life, sometimes a footnote, sometimes the author. I gave him a washed down version, scared of judgement —I got born again in highschool, backslided a bit in uni and ultimately found my way back. Simple, easy, believable.

I look at him taking a sip of his black coffee and I can't help but notice the eyes he gives me as he drinks from his mug. I know that look. Lust. This man is closer to God than any man I've come across, he knows his way around prayer, he knows what time of the day to pray for what, he talks about unlocking realms like Jesus handed him the keys himself. Deep down I know this is the kind of man I should be with —a man after God's heart—a man acquainted with the Holy Spirit. The problem is, I'm probably not the kind of woman he sees himself with.

He has never once looked at me the Ephesians 5:25 kind of way. He looks at me the way I look at stray cats on the road knowing I have my overfed, entitled best friend of a cat at home — lovingly enough to make me feel accepted, cautious enough to know when to let me go. The way I pet stray cats wishing I would take them home with me is exactly what he has been doing to me for the last six months. It's not rocket-science, I didn't need to exhaust my psychology degree to know what he's thinking.

I laughed at a joke he made while clearing the bill but I internally knew I needed to count my days.

The thing is, you never know how long you have in the hands of a Christian man, especially if he doesn't hold you to a certain regard spiritually. It'll be something like " I think we're on different paths" or "I've been praying and I think God is redirecting me." It could be anything really, Angel Gabriel might make an appearance telling him to end the relationship and there's nothing you can do about it. I was ready for it all.

On this other side—this side we like to call the world—I'm taken very differently. People see me and they see Christ's best friend walking in. They come to me for "spiritual nourishment", constantly asking complex theological questions that I couldn't possibly know the answer to. They leave me out of certain events, they don't cuss when I'm around, they get surprised when I wear ragged jeans as if I should walk around with tunic and a shawl above my head. They try to accommodate my faith, they squeeze in gospel songs in their spotify queue playlists, they research on Christian movies to ask me about as a way to make me feel included. To them, I'm deep in the walk. They want to be like me—some of them at least.

On this other side men don't look at me lustfully. They don't even appear the slightest bit attracted to me. I'm a tad bit too much for their liking, I'm not fun, I'm prude, I'm boring, I talk about Jesus too much. They don't like that. They make good friends though, they don't put on a front when with me because they're not trying to impress me. They're vulnerable, they're open, they ask questions, but that's just as much as it gets.

It's such a weird place to be in. You're too worldly for Christians and too Christian for the worldly.

Like I said, God has always been part of my story. I don't have a story outside of Him whether or not He's the author, the villain or the afterthought—He's always been there.

I remember being so close to Him in highschool, I could feel Him even. I talked to Him, He talked back. I spoke in the encrypted language of Heaven, so fluent you would think I was born speaking it. I knew my way around the Word, I knew that the Word was coded and not even human beings can tamper with the coded information on there—as much as we've tried to. I knew Him;truly, fully. I loved Him;truly, fully.

So what went wrong you might ask. I also don't know. I couldn't tell you when, why or how I started drifting away. The walk is bumpy—that's for sure— but it felt like I stopped walking. At some point it felt like I just abandoned the narrow road for another random one. I gave philosophical explanations that I only believed in Him because of conditioning, a consequence of the environment that was very frivolous for Christianity and just like that I was out—but was He?

When I tried to fit in the world, it felt weird. I was always suggesting something that would make everyone in the room stare at me blankly.

"Si we pray before going out." I'd suggest on our way to the club.

I'd have to explain why my Spotify wrapped is mainly full of Gospel artists because I was known for twerking to dancehall and reciting Cardi B's lyrics bar for bar like my life depended on it. I'd entertain conversations on atheism, and went as far as supporting the fact that He doesn't exist. I knew He did, I'd seen Him so I knew He existed.

When all was said and done, I'd go back home, cry myself to sleep, battle with the weight on my chest and sat with the bitterness that was stirring within me.

You see the thing about God is that He is stubborn, incessant and unashamedly loud about His love for you—He will chase you down and best believe He will find you. That is what He did with me, He continued to chase me, I knew He was and so I ran even faster. You'd think that would stop Him, it didn't, and on one random Friday evening, in my dark, silent room, He found me.

What followed is a series of being found and being lost and ultimately being found again—I won't bore you with the details.

However,the thing that continues to be a steady constant is that there's practically no me without Him. I know I wouldn't want to do life with anyone else. Jesus is my best friend, a brother, father, a confidant, He's everything to me.

Despite this, I have seemingly gotten stuck at a very pivotal moment in one's faith. You see it's one thing to say you love God, to say you'll carry your cross and abide but it's a whole other thing to actually live those things out. So I remained somewhere where surrender isn't necessary and where disobedience is not tolerated. The end result? Too worldly for the Christians because I don't go all the way and too Christian for the world because I'm much more closer to Jesus.

Surrender becomes the only thing that can solve the equation. To me, surrender is vulnerability, it's accepting that you might suffer in the hands of who you trust and there's nothing you can do about it. It's accepting to be tossed,molded, remoulded, purified, consecrated—all of which aren't the smoothest of processes. It's the only thing I know I have left—to fully give in—to retain nothing for myself.

So as I walk with this man out of this cafe, I know that there's nothing that could possibly come out of this. God may talk to Him, but He talks to me too. Nothing will come out of this because I haven't learned to receive love from the one who gave it first and that, that in itself is enough reason.

Here's to surrender.

I hope this resonated with someone.

Love,

Shan.

The version I'm talking about is me when in love. Love for me has always been a constant in my life—or so I'd like to think. I was raised by my aunt in her early twenties, totally smitten by this amazing luo man that would have sent us all to Mars just to give her the world. That was the first time I saw love. Would you blame me for my inherent love for luo men?

I was 12 years old, having a huge crush on Larry Madowo and I would announce unashamedly that I like him so much. That would probably translate to my unwavering love for bald men. At some point I was convinced I would get married to this Juan Miguel guy I used to obsess over anytime his telenovela was playing, I remember googling his age and subtracting mine from his—eii jamani.

Before we go any further, let me just say that I was in a serious relationship—long-term even, in class four. I had one of those romcom meet-cutes when this new boy transferred to our school, wearing jeans and a black shirt because he hadn't gotten his uniform yet, walking behind our class teacher who came to introduce him to the class and the first person he laid his eyes on was me, sitting in the far end of class and sparks—no matter how immature, did in fact fly. We held hands from our preteen years, saw each other blossom into the world adolescence until he decided to dump me for a cute girl from another class. Oh well, that was good run.

Now this version I'm afraid of made it's first appearance when I was 14, and it would extend all the way to 19 (so help me God). I met a guy through a mutual friend and at that time I was so sure this boy would be my soulmate. We talked for hours on end—typical teen stuff, we talked about goals and how we'd get married...that was short-lived when he decided to dump me for another cooler girl. So much for a repetitive pattern.

The problem about this boy wasn't that he was special, or out of this world, the problem about this boy is that he met a version of me who was deprived of love, completely empty. The problem about this lover girl version of me wasn't because I was giving too much, or because I hoped too much, the problem about this version of me is that she believed that she wouldn't ever get another chance of being loved, and so she poured, gave, scraped the bottom of the already empty barrel just so she could prove herself to this boy.

Now at some point she probably felt like she was chasing the wind and she gave up. Well, she gave up extrinsically but deep down, she was still convinced she couldn't find another boy like that.

And on one random Wednesday afternoon, in the chaotic mix of covid, the air full of boredom and lethargy, she got a text. Oh honey, the devil was probably working overtime at this point because she gave in so easily, and that's the thing about this version of me—she's just way too easy.

This boy she had convinced herself to forget about had just texted her and now here she was, thinking it was fate, that maybe he realized what he'd lost, after all that quote she saw about 'psychology says' said this would happen, so she was sure this time it was it for them.

And so they went back to sharing goals, dreams.. having long conversations...she taught this boy to cook via WhatsApp voice notes. They had names for their three kids, they'd get married at 21 at the AG's and save up for their grand wedding. They made Pinterest boards of the kind of wedding they'd have. Jesus, she was sending bridal gown inspos for his opinion. Covid wewe aki!!

And then on one random Wednesday, he just said he was bored...after two years of trying it out again, four years since they knew each other, all of it was summed up to a "I'm bored of whatever we have" text. Looking back , I'm realizing she was probably so convinced that she was so unworthy of love and him loving her was a huge favor for her. She didn't plead, she didn't beg, she just internally agreed that she shouldn't be greedy, she'd been given something she didn't deserve and now it was time to leave the stage.

This lover girl is only just learning that she is not the love she receives. She's learning that love doesn't necessarily follow a pattern, that just because she was deprived of it when she needed it most, she's not exempted from getting it now.

She's learning that love shouldn't come to fill, it should already find her full of it, because the measurement of love isn't permanence, so when it decides to leave, she should be willing to let it go without losing parts of herself.

She has accepted that to love is to devote, to yearn, to look for the other person in everything she sees. She is beginning to see that even if that's the case, to love is also to leave, when it's time to call it wraps, she's learning to bask in what was and not drown herself in the despair of what could have been. However much that is the case, she is learning to strike a balance between being a leaver and a fighter , because sometimes, some things are truly worth fighting for, whether or not you're guaranteed to win.

So this lover girl under construction is hoping to find herself in a place where the kind of love she needs is understood without her having to explain it. And honestly, she's okay if that place is within herself, because sometimes the love we need is the one we should give ourselves . So whether it's with someone's beautiful, intelligent, witty, kind, funny, dark-skinned son(a breed she swears by), or with the love she's learning to give herself, she knows she's going to be okay.

Like many of us, she's also a work in progress.

The string can get tangled, stretched so completely or sometimes, get stuck somewhere but either way, the ends of it have to meet.

That was him for me—the other end of our string.

Was I his? I think I struggle to know that but to be honest, I do think of the thought of me not being his other end quite a lot.

The truth is, it's hard to live like you don't know the truth when you know exactly what the truth is.

He is my truth.

Is it possible that my truth could possibly not be his? Maybe.

However, I hope that no matter how far we end up being from each other, how stretched the lands of the earth would have us or how tangled the complexity of life may have us—I hope he would carry me with him.

I hoped he would at least think of me as his other end because to me, I have lived knowing he is mine.