Some truths come dressed in silence. Others wear poems.
My name is Arielle Nyambura Wanjiku, and I am still learning how to hold both.
This morning begins like a sigh. The fog has lifted, but I haven't. There's a stiffness in my spine that no amount of tea can ease. I run a thumb along the corner of my notebook, staring at yesterday's last entry:
Somewhere in the spaces between the lines, I find a piece of myself I didn't know I'd lost.
I don't know what it means yet. But it feels honest.
Mira calls while I'm brushing my teeth. I nearly miss it. She rarely phones, preferring voice notes or texts like a millennial.
I answer with toothpaste in my mouth.
"You alive?" she asks.
"Technically."
She hums, and in that hum is all the affection, worry, and exasperation of someone who knows me better than I know myself.
"You ghosted me after the panel. And you didn't even tell me you were going. I had to hear from Jordan."
I pause. "Jordan talks fast."
"Jordan talks honest," she counters. "Unlike you. So. Are you okay?"
I rinse, stall. Then finally, "I don't know."
Silence. Then: "That's okay. But don't disappear into not knowing. Not from people who care."
My throat tightens.
"He read a poem that night, didn't he? D.K.?"
I don't answer. I don't have to.
"Come over tomorrow," she says, softer now. "I'll make pancakes. We can pretend we're eighteen again and the world isn't made of sharp things."
Elian texts around noon.
Elian: I know this is last minute. There's an open mic tonight. It's small. No pressure, just... presence.
Me: Will you be reading?
Elian: Only if you come.
I laugh. He always knows how to place the ball gently in my court. No demands. Just possibility.
I don't say yes.
But at 6:45 p.m., I'm standing outside Indigo Roots Café with a notebook tucked in my bag and my heart pounding like it's auditioning.
Inside, the space is magic. Fairy lights strung across wooden beams, mismatched chairs hugging people close. There's the scent of cinnamon and maybe lavender. Every wall is covered in handwritten notes from past performers. The air hums with lived-in poetry.
I find a seat near the back.
The emcee,a nonbinary spoken-word artist with silver nails and a baritone voice,opens with a piece about carrying your homeland in your chest and your heartbreak in your shoes.
I breathe.
Then Jordan takes the mic.
She looks radiant. Confident. Like someone who's spent enough time bleeding on the page that the scars now spell wisdom.
Her poem is about her grandmother. About legacy. About rage inherited and reshaped.
I write one word in my notebook as she speaks:
Truth.
Just before the break, I turn toward the counter and I see him.
Darian Kellen vale.
D.K.
He's leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes fixed not on me,but through me. He's listening to someone else read, but his face softens in a way I recognize.
He hasn't seen me yet. Or maybe he has and decided not to interrupt the distance I placed between us.
I wonder if he knew I'd come.
I wonder if he hoped I would.
Then his eyes flicker. Land on me. Don't look away.
We hold the stare for a second too long.
I turn back around.
The next act begins, but I don't hear a word.
When Elian's name is called, I sit straighter.
He walks to the mic with the grace of someone who's danced with words for years. He adjusts the stand, breathes in deeply.
Then he speaks:
"Some loves are quiet. They build themselves into your skin.
They do not shout. They do not bloom. They become."
It's not about me, I tell myself.
But when he says:
"I once loved someone who carried silence like armor. Who touched the world like it might vanish if she wasn't careful. Who taught me that sometimes the loudest declarations are made with retreat."
I feel my stomach twist.
He closes with:
"She is still a map I cannot fold. Still a streetlight I wait under. Still a question I ask, even when I'm silent."
Applause fills the room. But I feel hollowed.
Because it was about me.
And I don't know what to do with that.
The event ends with a soft buzz of conversation. Jordan finds me, touches my shoulder.
"You okay?"
"Getting there."
She squeezes my hand.
I feel someone at my side.
It's Elian.
"Hey."
"Hi."
We step outside together. The air is colder now. More honest.
He doesn't push.
"You looked like you were breathing tonight," he says.
"I think I was."
He nods. "That's enough."
There's a pause. Then he leans in and kisses my forehead.
"Goodnight, Arielle."
He walks away before I can answer.
I don't go straight home.
I walk through the neighborhood where Darian once bought me coffee and we argued about Rupi Kaur. Where we once sat under a bus stop at 3 a.m. after watching a movie we both hated but couldn't stop quoting.
I pass the mural he helped paint.
It says, in soft, flowing script: "Be the poem someone breathes easier reading."
My breath catches.
Back in my apartment, I light a candle. I sit cross-legged on the floor. I open my notebook.
I write:
Some names live on the edge of your tongue forever.
Some people don't leave. They transform.
I am learning to stop labeling feelings that haven't finished becoming.
Then I close the book.
And, just before I sleep, I whisper into the quiet:
"Goodnight, Darian."
Even if he'll never hear it.
Even if it's not goodbye.
Not yet.