A week passed after her birthday, and I found myself back from Tema.
Back....not with celebration or fanfare, not even with a sigh of relief.
Just… back.
Tema was a good place, objectively. The weather was decent, the people mostly tolerable if you stayed out of their way, and the rhythm of the place was predictable enough to lull even the most troubled minds into silence. But for me, it grew hollow.
My space—the sacred air that I fought to breathe alone—kept being invaded by footsteps too loud for their size, voices too curious for their worth, and company too shallow for the depth of silence I needed.
But that story…
That one's for another book.
Another version of me.
My return was as quiet as my absence.
No fanfare.
No "Welcome back."
Not even a glance of recognition from the family with the blood I supposedly shared.
I was a ghost who never needed to die to become one.
Some nights I would lie in bed and wonder if I even existed to them.
A part of me liked that.
Another part… wasn't sure anymore.
In that cocoon of nothingness—of invisibility that I wore like a second skin—there were rare moments when I reached out. Moments I told myself were accidents, passing impulses, nothing serious.
But those "rare" moments were growing in number.
Because of her.
I used to find home in the wild places of the world.
The forest was my cathedral.
I would sit beneath the branches as sunlight filtered through the leaves like stained glass, the wind playing hymns in tones only the lonely could hear.
The birds, the trees, the soft rustle of the undergrowth...they all knew me by name.
They welcomed me not because they wanted something from me, but because I existed.
That was enough.
And the rain...God, the rain...
She was my wild friend. When she came, I'd run out barefoot, arms stretched, head tilted back like a fool begging the heavens to baptize him again and again.
She never judged.
She just poured.
And I danced.
The moon...
My oldest companion.
That quiet soul who watched me night after night, never saying a word, just listening.
But slowly… quietly…
I started drifting.
It didn't happen like a thunderbolt, didn't come crashing in like the storm I thought would tear down my walls.
No.
It happened like erosion, subtle, grain by grain.
The attention I once gave to the forest, the rain, the moon…
I started giving it to her.
It wasn't the best of realizations when I finally noticed it.
But by the time I did, I didn't care.
I started saying quiet goodbyes.
To the forest:
> "Sorry, buddy. I might not come visit for a while. But I'll be back someday. You know I will."
To the rain:
> "Hey, princess. Go ahead and dance without me this time. I'll watch you from the window. I promise I'll join again soon."
To the moon:
> "Old friend… I know you're watching. So I don't need to say much. You see what's going on. You know me better than I do."
They didn't answer.
They didn't need to.
They'd been my companions long enough to understand.
In their place, a new light quietly began to take root.
Not a blinding one. Not some all-consuming obsession.
But a constant flicker.
She began appearing everywhere, subtly, without asking permission.
In my sketches—first as a mistake, then as a shadow, and finally as the subject.
I'd never been great at drawing. My hands always trembled with the weight of imagined perfection.
But with her, it didn't matter.
Her face appeared in more of my portraits than the entire collection I'd drawn during my stay in Tema.
A flick of her smile here.
A silhouette of her laugh there.
It wasn't love.
God, no.
I told myself that much.
It was attention… admiration… amusement… something safer.
Something I could walk away from.
Because even in all that—her voice, her words, her steady presence—my heart still felt cold.
Untouched.
Even if I reached out once in a while, it was with gloved hands.
No warmth passed between.
And yet…
Not a single day went by without her voice in my ears.
Not one.
Late-night chats.
Midday jokes.
Silent moments where we simply shared space without needing to fill the silence.
She talked.
I listened.
I talked.
She listened harder.
> "You never talk this much with anyone, do you?" she asked one night.
I stared at the ceiling in the darkness of my room, barely able to see my own hands.
"No."
A pause.
> "why me?"
"don't ask questions that the answers might hurt you"
I didn't elaborate.
She didn't press.
She was always careful not to push too hard.
Maybe she feared I'd vanish.
And maybe she was right.
Because despite everything… I knew I was going to leave.
Not in a dramatic exit.
Not with explanations or promises to keep in touch.
Quietly.
The same way I returned.
I wasn't doing it out of malice.
I just hated lies.
And I had once told her:
> "I'll be there to listen anytime you need someone to talk to."
I had to keep that word, even if it anchored me to a dock I no longer wanted to be tied to.
But the moment I sensed—just the faintest trace—that my ear was no longer needed...
I would be gone.
Not "I might leave."
Not "I will eventually."
No.
I am going to leave.
The countdown had already begun.
And yet, every night, I still stayed.
Listening.
Sketching.
Letting her voice fill the quiet places I once gave to rain and trees and distant moons.
Even dragons, after all, have caves they return to.
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