Wonderful — here is Chapter 8, continuing the same night with Lina a
They did not move to the sofa.
Instead they remained where they had stopped in the sitting room, hands still loosely joined, the quiet of the house settling around them. Outside, Nairobi night hummed softly — distant traffic, a dog barking somewhere beyond the wall, wind shifting bougainvillea leaves against stone.
Lina released her fingers only to guide her gently toward a chair. "Sit," she said.
Naliaka obeyed, the wordless authority familiar from years of being steadied this way in London — kitchens at midnight, bus rides home in rain, studio floors scattered with fabric while confessions unfolded between them.
Lina took the opposite chair, body angled forward, attention absolute.
"Start at the beginning," she said.
Naliaka drew a slow breath. "I didn't know he still—" Her voice faltered. She tried again. "I heard him today. He was speaking to someone. About me."
Lina's expression did not change. "What did he say?"
"That he accepted it," Naliaka whispered. "That I made the right choice."
"And?"
Her throat tightened. "That he learned to separate what matters from what remains."
Understanding moved through Lina's eyes — deep, immediate. "Ah," she said softly.
The small sound carried more comprehension than words. It loosened something in Naliaka's chest.
"He said I mattered," she went on. "Not past. Not once. Present." Her gaze dropped to her hands. "As if nothing changed."
Lina watched her quietly. "For him, nothing did."
Emotion rose, sharp and destabilising. "How can that be true after five years?"
"Because love does not measure time the way distance does," Lina said. "You know this."
Naliaka let out a fragile breath that was almost a laugh. "I tried not to."
"Yes," Lina said gently. "You tried very hard."
Silence opened — not empty, but filled with London years between them: shared flats, hospital shifts, design deadlines, winter mornings over tea. Lina had witnessed what no one in Nairobi had seen.
"You never loved anyone else," Lina said.
It was not accusation. It was record.
Naliaka shook her head slowly. "I told myself I was busy. Training. Exams. Immigration paperwork. Always something urgent." She swallowed. "But the truth was simpler."
"You were still with him," Lina said.
"Yes."
The admission settled into the room like released breath.
"I thought it would fade," Naliaka said. "Everyone said first love fades. That adulthood replaces it." Her voice softened. "But he stayed exactly as he was. Seventeen. Kind. Steady. Waiting in memory." She pressed her lips together. "I didn't let him grow in my mind. I was afraid if he changed, I would lose even that."
Lina's gaze warmed with quiet sorrow. "So you preserved him."
"Yes."
"And now?"
Naliaka looked up, eyes bright. "Now he's here. Real. Older. Hurt." The last word broke slightly. "And he loved me through all of it."
Lina leaned back slowly, absorbing the weight of what had shifted. "That is why you are frightened," she said.
Naliaka nodded once. "If he loved me this much… then I was the one who left."
Truth rarely spoken aloud between them — now undeniable.
"You were eighteen," Lina said. "Orphaned. Terrified of losing everything again. Offered escape through education." Her voice remained calm but firm. "You did not choose against him. You chose survival."
"But he stayed," Naliaka whispered.
"Yes," Lina said. "Because his survival looked different."
The balance settled at last: two loves shaped by different necessities.
Naliaka covered her face briefly. "I thought he would forget."
"You hoped he would," Lina corrected softly. "Because then you could believe you hurt him less."
Tears slipped free. "I did hurt him."
"Yes."
The agreement held no cruelty — only truth.
"And you hurt yourself," Lina added. "For five years."
The symmetry landed fully then, and something inside Naliaka eased — not absolution, not forgiveness, but shared human cost.
They sat in silence a long moment.
At last Lina spoke again. "Does he know you still love him?"
The question struck like light.
"No," Naliaka said.
"Then you have not yet reached the point where choices change," Lina said.
Fear flickered. "What if it's too late?"
Lina shook her head slowly. "Love that survives five years of absence does not expire in a hospital corridor."
Naliaka let out a trembling breath.
"And if he has built a life without me?"
"Then you honour that," Lina said. "But you do not hide truth to protect him from knowledge he already carries."
The room settled again — softer now, possibility threading grief.
Naliaka looked at her friend — the one person who had walked beside her through the years Daniel had not seen.
"What do I do?" she asked.
Lina's answer was quiet, steady, and inevitable.
"You stop living as if the past is safer than the present," she said. "And you speak to him."