The Void Between Hearts ~~ongoing~~

47. Boma

My head strings sentences, "Chinny. . . It's not what you think," I say.

The sentences don't make any sense, but a lot about this situation does not make sense. Just another chaos of my invention.

"You're dying?" she has never looked this angry, not at me.

"Would you at least, let me explain?" I close my eyes as the words escape.

When I decided not to tell her, I was hoping to save her; she looks like I ruined her.

"Four months? You've been dying for a while! What do you want to explain!" her voice bangs against my head.

It dawns on me, I've known Chinny for more than half a decade, during which she has told me every single thing, including the time she was nearly sexually abused by a primary school teacher, and the time her parents almost separated because her father got another woman pregnant, now, she's realising that I didn't do the same, it's not such a great realisation.

"Chinny," I attempt to reason with her.

She begins clawing at the fascinator that seems tangled in her hair.

I stand up, "Chinny!"

She shoots me a glance I've never seen before, throwing the fascinator at my feet and taking off her shoes. "Don't. ever. talk. to. me. again. " she wipes her eyes and turns around.

"Chinny. Please, wait." I call out desperately.

She doesn't stop or look back.

I follow her. Skipping recklessly with what seems like two steps in the air accompanied by four increasingly out-of-breath pants.

A lot of meters in front of me, her silver dress flays in the low evening breeze. I'm still trying to call out to her in my breathlessness, I know she can hear me.

Why won't she stop and just understand for a bit.

My head tells me to stop running, my lungs are screaming at me to catch my breath, it burns, but not as hot as the liquid pool of regret sipping out of my eyes. I'm drained.

I collapse on my knees, it's not voluntary. I want to run up and grab her, but my body has it's rules, and even if I want to resist, it commands me to obey.

"CHINNY! PLEASE!" I scream out with my last wistful breath, closing my eyes, squeezing as hard as I can against the rotating aurae floating around the darkness from exerting myself too hard.

When I look, she'll be standing, not running anymore, because I can't keep up.

"Why?" she asks. Her voice, almost inaudible in the way it's soaked up her tears.

I open my eyes, slowly, intentionally, taking my time to breathe.

She stopped, a few meters away; away from the breathless heaving mess of tears I have become. At least she's not a mile away, I couldn't move any further if I wanted.

"Chin—"

"YOU'RE DYING! BOMA! DYING! AND YOU TOLD EVERYONE BUT ME! THAT'S NOT WHAT FRIENDS DO! THEY DON'T KEEP SUCH SECRETS!!"

"You're not trying to understand. "

"DO YOU KNOW HOW PAINFUL THIS IS? HOW BAD IT MAKES ME FEEL?" she doesn't turn around. Maybe if she sees me, she won't be so mad—but she doesn't want to see me—to let me trick her into believing that I had a reason for not telling her, when I don't.

"Chinny. . ."

"I wasn't supposed to find out, right?"

She's right and that's not the answer she wants to hear, so I let her resonating voice sift through me, while I come to terms with the gravity of my choices.