THE KHALIL RESIDENCE,
ASOKORO.
DECEMBER, 2020.
Jameelah and Bola were escorted to the guesthouse, a small, beautiful building located behind the main house.
The room wasn't extremely large nor suffocatingly small, it had the right amount of furniture that appealed to Jameelah's minimalistic tendencies.
The room was full of soft hues, whites, greys and light browns, contrasting in such an aesthetically beautiful manner that both women felt relaxed instantly.
Jameelah, being Jameelah instantly padded over to the bed, and in a few moments, was knocked out cold.
Since the accident, she'd been sleeping more frequently. Probably because of all the new information that was coming in, overwhelming the old ones trying to resurface.
It'd been painful at first, her head would throb uncomfortably, flashes and snippets of a life she couldn't quite remember overwhelming her senses.
After a while passed, she managed to suppress it, choosing to let the memories trickle in rather than swarm her, she'd filter through the memories, choosing to focus on details of the whole picture, a mere pixel of the large picture frame.
Once she'd managed to get that under control, her headaches reduced in intensity, and her heart felt lighter.
But being in the Khalil residence made something in her heart ache, she could taste, rather than feel the memories swarm in, a tangy taste that made nostalgia wash over her.
As she curled onto the bed, her fists gripped the comforter tightly, willing the emotions she couldn't quite handle, away.
She chose to focus on her breathing, focus on letting the air breeze through her lungs, slowing the unsteady thrum of her heartbeat, and soon enough, she was lost to the peace sleep brought.
***
Somewhere in the house, a shadow loomed over the curtains on the second floor.
And if anyone were to have seen Jamil Khalil in that moment, they'd have thought rubbish of every rumour that they'd ever heard about him.
Because, while there were thousands of adjectives that had been used since the beginning of time, there was only one that could describe the man.
Cold.
And every synonym of the world 'cold' that there was.
Brooding, moody, aloof, apathetic, indifferent.
But none of those words could be used to describe the Jamil that peeked behind the curtain.
He looked lost.
He'd seen Jamilah alight the car, seen that face that had tormented his dreams and plagued his nightmares, seen those eyes that held everything he'd ever needed.
The frost in Jamil's gaze thawed at the sight, forming a lake of tears he could feel cloud his vision.
His tears never dropped, almost like the little drops of water were scared that their descent onto his skin would mar this sight they hadn't seen in years.
His tears were beautiful in their own right, casting a gleam across his dark eyes in a way that had rarely been precedented.
It was unusual that you would find any moisture in Jamil's eyes, and on the rare case there were, it would be in the comfort of his room, away from every presence except a picture of Jamilah clutched tightly in his hands.
Jamil sighed heavily, the remnants of a flame that had dulled by the news of Jamilah's passing, flaring up in brilliant hues of oranges and reds.
Somewhere inside him, he willed himself to be calm.
YOU ARE READING
𝓜𝔂 𝓫𝓪𝓫𝔂, 𝓶𝔂 𝔀𝓲𝓯𝓮
RomanceWhen news of Jamilah Abubakr's death reached the world, it shook. How couldn't it? It'd lost one of the gems it had left....A young, cultured philanthropist with as much beauty within, as she had without. The Khalil household was one of the most af...
