THE DAY TJIVARA AMUNTENYA DID NOT ANSWER
Tjivara turned 30 in 3 days and it felt to him like the city seemed to know.
He felt like everything seemed to be deliberate latelylike the rains sudden arrival, thin and delicate, as if someone higher up had decided the streets needed to be quieter.
Wind slid between buildings. Traffic slowed. People walked differently, their heaads slightly bowed more than the usual phone scrolling, it was more like their thoughts were turned inward.
Tjivara noticed these things because noticing little things was what he did.
He stood at the bus stop just opposite the old German pharmacy, hands in his jacket pockets, listening to to the rain hit the blue metal roof above him. Each drop made it sound like a soft decision.
"Still pretendeing you don't hear it?" a voice asked.
He didn't turn immediately.
Ndapewa leaned against the bus shelter pole, hair tied back, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. She was clearly smiling but it didn't reach her eyes.
"I hear everything," Tjivara responded.
"That's not the same as answering."
He sighed, "You're early."
"You're late." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You've been like this all week."
Tjivara turned to meet her gaze then. Something passed between them, old warmth, old tension, something unfinished.
"I'm fine," he said.
She laughed softly. "You always say that right before something breaks."
The bus hadn't arrived. It should have.
He felt it then,a pressure right behind his eyes like a memory trying to surface.
"You ever notice," Ndapewa said, "how it always gets quiet when you're about to lie?"
He looked away.
"I'm not lying."
"You're withholding."
"... That's different..."
She studied him a little. "What did you dream about this time?"
He froze.
The rain slowed.
"I didn't dream," he said carefully.
Ndapewas smile faded. "That's worse."
A man across the street dropped his phone. It hit the ground, but the sound came a second late as if the world needed time to process it.
Tjivara swallowed.
"Name... I heard my name." he finally answered.
Ndapewa didn't joke this time. "From who?"
"I don't know."
"When and where was the last time you heard it?"
"Everywhere."
The bus lights appeared in the distance, flickering.
Ndapewa reached for his hand without asking. Her fingers were warm. Real.
"You don't get to disappear on me," she whispered quietly.
He squeezed her hand back. "I'm not going anywhere."