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The Story of Us That Never Was

Davis_Moseti
7
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The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
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Synopsis
The Story of Us That Never Was follows Kerif, a thoughtful, introspective boy whose life is forever changed when Tasha, a bold and magnetic girl, enters his world. Their childhood bond, full of imagination and unspoken feelings, matures into a quiet, aching love that Kerif never dares voice. When fate takes Tasha away, he's left with letters he never sent and memories he can't forget. As he grows older, Kerif immerses himself in history, searching for answers in the patterns of love, loss, and silence. This poignant coming-of-age story explores the enduring power of unspoken love and the echoes of what might have been.
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Chapter 1 - The Beginning of Us

July 30th, 2025, I don't know what compelled me to begin writing again after all these years. Maybe it's the quiet. Maybe it's the way the wind moves through these empty halls, reminding me of a voice I haven't heard in so long. Tasha. Her name still shapes the curve of my breath like it did when I was a boy. She's the first thought of my day and the last before sleep overtakes me. It's been years since I've said her name aloud, but somehow, it never stopped echoing inside me. This isn't a story for the world. It's just for me and perhaps, someday, for her.

I was eleven when Tasha came into my life. That day plays in my mind like a film reel I've rewound too many times, the frames worn smooth with memory. It was a Monday. Overcast. A kind of Nairobi afternoon where the clouds loomed low and dense like a woolen ceiling, threatening rain but delivering only a soft mist that clung to the skin.

I remember kneeling in the hallway, bent over a trail of mismatched plastic dominoes. Some of them weren't even dominoes, just old Lego bricks and plastic erasers I'd stolen from my sister's desk. But in my mind, they were important. They had a purpose. They'd lead to a final crescendo, a dramatic toppling that would draw applause only from myself.

My father's voice had rung through the house earlier that morning, telling me to tidy up. We were having a visitor. He didn't say much else. I expected someone boring, maybe a tutor with thick glasses and breath that smelled of boiled cabbage. Someone to drill me on math tables or force me to read aloud.

What I didn't expect was her. The door opened. The usual shuffle of my father's shoes echoed faintly. Then a softer, hesitant step. A shuffle, a pause. I peeked around the hallway corner, one eye just barely visible past the doorway, and there she was: a girl, no older than me, soaked from the rain. She was clutching a suitcase nearly as big as her torso, her damp braids clinging to her cheeks.

She looked around with sharp and measuring eyes, ones that assessed a space rather than admired it. I ducked back behind the wall. I don't know why. I've always been shy, especially around new people. But before I could decide whether to run or stay hidden, she stepped into view.

"Hi," she said.

 I blinked.

"I'm Tasha."

Her voice was clear, matter-of-fact. Not warm, not cold. Just honest. Unapologetic. She didn't wait for permission to exist in my world. She entered it like someone who belonged. I muttered something, probably "Kerif," or maybe just "Hi" but I don't think I made much sense. She crouched beside me anyway, inspecting the domino trail with a raised eyebrow.

"Why's that one facing the wrong way?" she asked, pointing at a brick near the end of the track. I looked. She was right. I hadn't noticed. "I don't know," I said, voice small. She reached out, fixed it, then nudged the first domino gently. We watched the line fall.

A quiet chain reaction filled the hallway, punctuated by the soft clatter of plastic against tile. When it ended, she grinned. "You need more drama at the end," she said. "Like a bell or a balloon popping." I nodded, still not sure how to talk to her. She stood and dusted off her knees. "Come on," she said. "Let's find something better." And just like that, we were inseparable.

Those first few weeks with Tasha felt like stepping into a storybook, one written in secret, tucked between the folds of ordinary life. She moved into the guest room upstairs, though I quickly began calling it her room in my mind. My parents didn't explain much. There were murmurs behind closed doors, careful conversations that quieted when I approached. I picked up bits and pieces, words like 'temporary,' 'guardianship,' and 'complications,' but at eleven, I didn't have the framework to understand. All I knew was that Tasha was here, and for now, she was staying. She wasn't like anyone I'd ever met.

At school, she was quick-witted and a little mischievous, often talking back to teachers without being disrespectful. She had a way of asking questions that made adults pause, questions that made them rethink their answers. In class, she sat two desks behind me, always tapping her pencil when she got bored. I could feel her eyes on me sometimes, and when I turned, she'd pretend to look somewhere else.

During lunch, when most kids ran to the canteen or sat in clusters under the fig trees, Tasha would find me. I always brought books. Big ones, with old covers and tiny fonts. I didn't read fast, but I read deeply. She never teased me for it. In fact, she seemed to like it.

"What are you reading today?" she'd ask, sliding down beside me on the bench. I'd hold up the book, usually something about empires or ancient wars. She'd wrinkle her nose. "Sounds depressing. Read it to me." And I would. Every time. I didn't need to be asked twice.

She listened with a surprising stillness, eyes narrowed in thought, nodding occasionally. She loved the tragic stories the most tales where the hero lost something precious, or where fate couldn't be escaped. "Those are the ones that feel real," she once said. "Happy endings are lazy." I disagreed, but I never argued. I just kept reading.