The Weight of Silence

Chapter 8

28. September, 1997
London, England

The afternoon sun bathed the street in a soft, golden light as I made my way to work at the flower shop. Saturdays were always busy—couples looking for last-minute bouquets, families buying flowers for celebrations, and sometimes just people stopping in for the scent of fresh blooms. I loved the quiet buzz of the shop, the vibrant colors, and the faint hum of life that came with each arrangement.

But today, my thoughts were heavier than usual. Last night lingered in my mind like a shadow I couldn't shake. Seeing Sayjan at the movies, the way he looked at me but didn't say a word—it stung more than I wanted to admit. I'd tried to push it aside, but every step toward the shop felt like dragging that memory with me.

As I rounded the corner, the shop's sign came into view, its painted letters gleaming in the sunlight. I was only a block away when I heard it.

"Adma!"

The voice cut through the quiet street, clear and urgent.

I froze for a second, thinking I'd imagined it. But then it came again, louder this time.

"Adma, wait!"

I turned around, and there he was.

Sayjan was running toward me, his face flushed, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he sprinted. He slowed as he got closer, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.

"You didn't answer the phone," he said, his words tumbling out between breaths.

I blinked, confused.

"So you decided to chase me down in the middle of the street?"

"Yes," he said simply, his gaze locking on mine.

I stared at him, caught off guard by the raw honesty in his tone.

"Okay, well, what do you want?"

For a moment, he didn't say anything. He just looked at me, his chest still rising and falling from the run, his eyes filled with something I couldn't quite place.

"Say something, or I'm leaving," I said, turning back toward the shop.

"Wait," he said quickly, stepping closer. "I just... I need to talk to you."

I stopped but didn't turn around.

"About what?"

"Last night," he said softly.

My heart twisted. Of course, it was about last night. I turned to face him, crossing my arms.

"What about it?"

He hesitated, his hands fidgeting at his sides.

"I—I didn't know you'd be there. I wasn't expecting to see you."

"And?" I asked, my voice colder than I intended.

"And I—I didn't know what to do," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

I felt my chest tighten, anger and hurt bubbling to the surface.

"You didn't know what to do? How about saying 'hi'? How about not acting like I don't exist?"

"It's not like that," he said quickly, his eyes pleading. "You know it's not like that."

"Then what is it, Sayjan?" I asked, my voice rising. "Because from where I'm standing, it feels like you're embarrassed to even be seen with me."

He flinched at my words, his jaw tightening.

"I'm not embarrassed," he said firmly.

"Then what?" I demanded.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, like he was struggling to find the right words. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.

"I—" he started, but I cut him off.

"You know what? Forget it," I said, shaking my head. "I don't have time for this."

I turned and walked away, my heart pounding. I could hear him behind me, his footsteps quickening as he followed.

"Adma, wait!" he called out.

I stopped just outside the flower shop, spinning around to face him.

"What, Sayjan? What do you want from me?"

He stared at me, his expression torn.

"I just... I don't want you to think I don't care about you," he said, his voice soft but earnest.

I felt my throat tighten, the vulnerability in his words cutting through my anger.

"Then stop acting like you don't," I said quietly.

For a moment, neither of us said anything. The air between us felt charged, like something was about to break.

"I'll see you later," I finally said, turning and stepping into the flower shop.

The bell above the door jingled as I entered, the familiar scent of roses and lilies washing over me. I tried to focus on the rows of vibrant blooms, the soft hum of the cooler in the back, anything but the way my heart felt like it was being pulled in two directions.

Through the shop's glass window, I could see him standing there for a moment, his hands shoved into his pockets. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he didn't. After a few seconds, he turned and walked away.

I sighed, leaning against the counter as I tried to steady myself. The weight of his words—and the ones he didn't say—lingered with me, making it harder to focus on the day ahead.