The phone buzzes in your pocket, vibrating against your skin. You know the number even before you look - it's hers. You’ve known her for a while now, a connection forged over shared dreams and late-night conversations. You've always appreciated her zest for life, her uninhibited laughter, how she could make even the mundane seem exciting. But lately, the way she lingers on your name in text messages, the way she asks about your day, it's become something more.
You ignore the call. It's not that you don't want to talk to her, it's just… complicated. You're already with someone. She’s asleep in the next room, her breathing soft and even. You can almost feel the warmth of her presence, the gentle rise and fall of her chest against the bed.
You glance at the phone again. It's buzzing insistently, the glow reflecting in your eyes. The message pops up: “Babe am coming to your house tonight.”
Your heart pounds a little faster. You can practically hear her voice, playful and alluring, laced with the promise of something new. You want to reply, to tell her how much you're looking forward to seeing her, but the words get caught in your throat.
You bite your lip, your eyes darting to the bedroom door. You've been living a lie, a carefully constructed facade of normalcy. You've been juggling two lives, two loves, convinced you're in control. But the guilt is gnawing at you, a constant shadow lurking in the corners of your mind.
You type out a reply, your fingers hesitant on the screen. “I'm sorry, I can't.” The words feel hollow, like a betrayal even before you send them.
You hit send and immediately regret it. It feels like a brick falling into the well of your carefully constructed world. The phone buzzes again, relentless. 'What happened?'
You know that you have to talk to her, to explain. But how do you explain the tangled mess that your life has become? How do you tell her about the woman sleeping in the next room, the woman you've promised to love?
You put your phone on silent, the buzzing a constant reminder of the truth you're trying to ignore. You slip out of bed, careful not to wake her. The air in the room is thick with the scent of her lavender perfume, a scent that always sends a jolt through your system.
You head to the kitchen, the silence of the house amplifying the weight of your decision. You pour yourself a glass of water, the cool liquid doing little to quench the thirst for honesty that burns in your throat.
You think of her, the woman demanding an explanation. You think of the woman sleeping peacefully in the next room. You can't keep living this way, the guilt is strangling you.
The phone buzzes again. You pick it up, your fingers trembling.
'I'm sorry,' you type, the words a whisper in the night. 'I can't be with you.'
You send the message and wait, the silence stretching like a taut wire.
The phone buzzes again, and finally, a message arrives: 'Okay. I understand.'
The relief washes over you, a wave crashing against the shore of your anxieties. You've pushed her away, but the weight of your deception has lifted, a little.
You turn to the bedroom, the door ajar. The faint glow of the streetlights paints the room in an ethereal light. You walk in, the air thick with the scent of her, and sink onto the bed.
The night is silent, but the silence is no longer burdened by the weight of your lies. You close your eyes, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a sense of peace.
But you can't escape the gnawing feeling that this is only the beginning. You've made a choice, but the consequences of that choice echo in the silence of the night, a symphony of guilt and uncertainty that will be difficult to silence. The weight of your decision hangs heavy, a reminder that your life, like the city of Lusaka outside, is a complex and unpredictable tapestry, woven with threads of love and lies, joy and sorrow, and you, caught in the center, wrestling with the consequences.
