Three weeks passed like walking through fog.
Ava went through the motions of her life—teaching her classes, grading papers, attending faculty meetings. She met Thabo for coffee twice. Both times, he was perfectly pleasant, perfectly polite, and it felt like dying slowly.
She hadn't heard from Liana since that final goodbye.
She'd driven past Liana's apartment four times, always late at night when she knew Liana would be asleep. Just to be near her, even if only in the most pathetic way. On the third drive-by, she'd seen Liana's light on, had seen her silhouette through the window—working late on a design, probably—and Ava had almost stopped. Almost knocked on the door. Almost begged for another chance.
But she'd kept driving.
Now it was a Friday evening, and Ava sat in her apartment with a glass of wine she wasn't drinking, looking at her phone. Thabo had texted earlier asking if she wanted to have dinner next week. Her mother had called twice to "check in," which really meant to make sure Ava was staying on the proper path.
And somewhere across the city, Liana was living her life without Ava in it.
Ava opened her photo gallery and navigated to the locked folder she still hadn't been able to delete. The photos of her and Liana, of their life together. She scrolled through them slowly, each image a knife to the chest.
There—Liana laughing at something Ava had said, her head thrown back, joy radiating from every pixel.
There—the two of them hiking in the Drakensberg, Ava's arms wrapped around Liana from behind, both of them grinning at the camera.
There—Liana asleep in bed, her face peaceful, one hand reaching toward Ava's side as if even in sleep she was seeking her out.
Ava remembered taking that photo. It had been a Sunday morning, early, the light just starting to filter through Liana's curtains. They'd stayed up too late the night before, talking about everything and nothing, making love slowly and tenderly. Ava had woken first and just watched Liana sleep, overcome with the impossible reality that this woman loved her.
She remembered thinking: This is what happiness feels like.
When had she last felt happy? Truly happy, not just going through the expected motions?
She couldn't remember.
Her phone buzzed—not Thabo this time, but her mother.
"Ava, Mrs. Mthembu called me today. She's so pleased with how things are going between you and Thabo. Your father and I would like to have both families over for lunch next Sunday. Please let me know if you're available."
Ava stared at the message. Both families. Next Sunday. The relationships accelerating whether she was ready or not, being pushed forward by mothers who saw what they wanted to see.
She should text back immediately, should say yes, should continue playing her part. But her fingers felt frozen, refused to type the expected response.
Instead, she found herself opening a new message. To Liana.
She typed: "I miss you."
Deleted it.
Typed: " made a mistake."
Deleted it.
Typed: "I think about you every day."
Deleted it.
What could she possibly say that would matter? She'd made her choice. She'd chosen her family over Liana, safety over love. And Liana had moved on. As she should. As she deserved to.
But God, Ava missed her. Missed her laugh, her touch, the way she challenged Ava to be braver. Missed the version of herself that existed only when she was with Liana—the real version, the one who wasn't performing or pretending.
Her doorbell rang.
Ava's heart stuttered. She wasn't expecting anyone. For a wild, impossible moment, she thought: Liana.
She rushed to the door and opened it without checking the peephole.
It wasn't Liana.
It was Thabo.
He stood in her hallway holding a small bouquet of flowers, looking apologetic. "I'm sorry to just show up like this. I texted earlier but you didn't respond, and I was in the neighborhood, and I thought—" He stopped, taking in Ava's expression. "This was a bad idea. I'm sorry. I should go."
"No, it's—" Ava tried to pull herself together. "It's fine. You just surprised me."
"Clearly." He held out the flowers. "These are for you. Just—my mother said flowers are always appropriate when you're getting to know someone, and I saw these at the market and thought of you."
Ava took the bouquet mechanically. Bright gerbera daisies, cheerful and innocent. The kind of flowers you bought when you were trying to make a good impression.
"Thank you," she said. "Would you like to come in?"
"Are you sure? You look—" He hesitated. "You look like maybe you were in the middle of something."
"Just sitting alone with a glass of wine, thinking about all my life choices" would be too honest. "Nothing important," Ava said instead.
Thabo followed her inside, his eyes taking in the sparse apartment. She saw him note the lack of personal touches, the carefully neutral decor, the single framed photo of her graduation.
"Can I get you something to drink?" Ava asked. "I have wine, or water, or—"
"Water's fine." He sat on the couch where Ava had been sitting moments before, where her phone still lay with its gallery open to photos of Liana.
Ava grabbed the phone quickly and shoved it in her pocket, then went to the kitchen for water. Her hands were shaking. She took a moment to breathe, to find her composure, before returning with two glasses.
Thabo accepted his with a quiet thanks. They sat in awkward silence for a moment.
"So," he finally said. "I wanted to talk to you about something."
Ava's stomach knotted. "Okay."
"I've been thinking about our coffee dates. About this whole—" He gestured vaguely. "Situation. And I feel like I need to be honest with you."
Here it comes, Ava thought. He's going to end this. Thank God.
"I like you," Thabo said.
That was not what she'd been expecting.
"You're smart, you're interesting, you clearly care about your work and your students. And I think, under different circumstances, we could actually be friends." He paused. "But I don't think you like me. Not romantically."
Ava opened her mouth, but he held up a hand.
"And before you protest or try to be polite, I want you to know that's okay. I'm not offended. But I also don't want to waste either of our time if this isn't something you're actually interested in pursuing."
The directness of it caught Ava off guard. "Thabo—"
"The thing is," he continued, "my mother is very excited about this. And based on what your mother has said to her, your parents are too. So I'm in a bit of a difficult position. If I back out, my mother will want to know why. And I suspect that would create problems for both of us."
"So what are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting we be honest with each other, even if we're not being completely honest with our parents." He leaned forward, his expression earnest. "Tell me the truth, Ava. Is there someone else?"
The question hung in the air. Ava could lie. Could play the part a little longer.
But she was so tired of lying.
"Yes," she whispered. "There was."
"Was?"
"Is. Was. I don't know anymore." Ava's voice cracked. "I ended it. Because my parents—because they wanted me to meet you, to do this properly. But I didn't want to end it. I didn't want any of this."
Thabo was quiet for a long moment. "Does this person know how you feel?"
"She knows I love her. She also knows I chose my family over her."
The pronoun hung in the air. Ava watched Thabo's face carefully, waiting for the judgment, the disgust, the withdrawal.
Instead, he just said, "Ah."
"Ah?"
"That explains a lot, actually. The way you look sometimes, like you're somewhere else entirely. The way you barely eat when we have coffee together. The way you flinch whenever I mention future plans." He set down his water glass. "You're in love with a woman."
"Yes."
"And your parents found out."
"Yes."
"And they pushed you toward me as a way to—what? Fix you? Prove you're not actually gay?"
The word sounded strange coming from him. Clinical. But not cruel. "Something like that."
Thabo leaned back, processing. "That's incredibly unfair to you."
"It's also unfair to you," Ava said. "Being used like this."
"True. Though to be honest, I had my suspicions. My mother has been trying to set me up for years, and I've resisted. But when she mentioned you, when she said your parents were particularly eager—" He shrugged. "I wondered if there was more to the story."
"And you still agreed to meet me?"
"I agreed because I'm tired of disappointing my mother. And because I thought maybe, just maybe, this could be simple. Two people pushed together by well-meaning parents, finding something real anyway." He smiled sadly. "But life's rarely that simple, is it?"
"No," Ava agreed. "It's not."
They sat in silence for a moment. Then Thabo said, "What's her name? The woman you love?"
"Liana."
"Do you want to tell me about her?"
And somehow, impossibly, Ava found herself talking. About how they'd met at an art gallery opening that a colleague had dragged Ava to. About Liana's laugh, her fearlessness, the way she saw the world in color when Ava had only ever seen it in black and white. About two years of stolen moments and secret joy. About the day her mother found out, and the choice Ava had made.
Thabo listened without interrupting, without judgment. When she finished, he said quietly, "You're still in love with her."
"Yes."
"Have you talked to her since you ended things?"
"No. She said goodbye, and I—I haven't had the courage to reach out."
"Why not?"
"Because what would I say? That I'm sorry? That I made a mistake? I went to dinner with you, Thabo. I've been on coffee dates with you. I've been doing exactly what my parents wanted me to do. What right do I have to go back to Liana now and ask for another chance?"
"The right of someone who realizes they've made a mistake. The right of someone who's in love." Thabo's voice was gentle. "Ava, I don't know you very well. But I know what it looks like when someone is dying inside. And that's what you're doing. You're dying slowly, trying to be who everyone else wants you to be."
"And what's the alternative? Lose my family? Lose everything I've ever known?"
"Yes," Thabo said simply. "If that's what it takes to keep yourself."
Ava felt tears burning behind her eyes. "That's easy for you to say."
"Is it? You don't know anything about my life, Ava. You don't know what I've given up or sacrificed to keep my family happy. You don't know—" He stopped himself. "But that's not the point. The point is that we both deserve more than this. More than being our parents' puppets."
"So what do we do?"
Thabo was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then he said, "We buy time. We keep seeing each other, keep playing the part, but only for as long as you need to figure out what you really want. And then, when you're ready—when you've truly decided—we end things publicly. You can blame me if you want. Say I wasn't ready for commitment, or that we weren't compatible, or whatever makes it easiest for you."
"Why would you do that for me?"
"Because I've spent my whole life doing what my mother wanted. And I'm tired. And maybe if I can help someone else break free, even if I can't do it myself yet, that's worth something."
There was a sadness in his voice that Ava recognized—the sadness of someone who knew exactly what they were giving up but couldn't quite find the courage to claim it.
"Thank you," Ava said softly.
"Don't thank me yet. This only works if you actually figure out what you want. And if you decide you want Liana, you have to be willing to fight for her. Really fight. Not just say you will, but actually do it."
Ava thought about Liana's face the last time she'd seen her. The hurt there. The resignation. The way she'd said goodbye as if she'd always known this was how it would end.
"I don't know if she'd take me back," Ava admitted.
"Maybe not. But at least you'd know you tried. At least you'd know you chose yourself, chose love, even if it didn't work out." Thabo stood. "Think about it. Really think about what you want your life to look like in five years, in ten years. And then decide if you can live with the choice you're making now."
He moved toward the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, I hope you choose her. I hope you choose happiness over duty. Someone should."
After he left, Ava sat alone in her apartment, his words echoing in her head.
"Someone should."
She pulled out her phone and looked at the photos of Liana again. Then she opened a new message and, before she could overthink it, typed: "I'm sorry. For everything. I know you probably don't want to hear from me, but I needed you to know that letting you go was the biggest mistake of my life. I understand if you've moved on. I understand if you hate me. But I had to tell you the truth. I love you. I've never stopped loving you."
Her finger hovered over the send button.
She thought about Thabo's question: What do you want your life to look like?
She thought about her father's ultimatum: Choose this path or lose your family.
She thought about Liana's final message: Goodbye.
And then she thought about something else—about that Sunday morning when she'd watched Liana sleep and thought about happiness. About the moment in the Drakensberg when Liana had grabbed her hand and pulled her up a difficult trail, laughing and calling her "my love" where anyone could hear. About every stolen kiss, every whispered promise, every time Liana had looked at her and said "I see you."
When had anyone else ever really seen her?
Ava pressed send.
The message went through with a soft whoosh that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet apartment.
And then there was nothing to do but wait.
She didn't know if Liana would respond. Didn't know if an apology would be enough, or if she'd already burned that bridge beyond repair.
But at least she'd told the truth. At least she'd taken one small step toward being brave.
It wasn't much. But it was something.
Her phone buzzed. A response from her mother about Sunday lunch: "Perfect! The Mthembus are so excited. This is wonderful, Ava. I'm so proud of you for giving this a proper chance."
Ava stared at the message and felt the weight of expectation settling back over her shoulders.
One small step toward truth. And a thousand steps more to go.