Janica
For the first time in what felt like forever, I had slept without waking in the middle of the night, gasping for air beneath the weight of grief. The nightmares hadn't come. No hospital rooms. No fading voices. Just deep, uninterrupted sleep until the soft strains of Clear Blue Sky pulled me gently into the morning.
The soft light of dawn filtered through the worn curtains of my bedroom, casting faint shadows on the walls. This house, small and unassuming, sat on a piece of land my mother had bought long ago. Before I could understand the sacrifices she must have made to secure it. It wasn't much, just a modest structure, but it was home. A place that still carried traces of her presence in every corner, from the faint scent of her old perfume lingering in the wooden dresser to the way the floor creaked under careful steps.
I didn't know my father. There was no shadow of him in my memories, no stories my mother had told to fill the void. Just the two of us until it was just me. And now, even in the silence of my home, I could still hear the echoes of her laughter, feel the warmth she had left behind. Some days, that comforted me. Other days, it only made the emptiness more unbearable.
I stretched, letting my body adjust to wakefulness, then made my way to the shower. Warm water cascaded over me, washing away the last traces of sleep. The scent of lavender curled into the steam, grounding me. For once, the morning felt… normal. Almost.
But as I stood there, eyes closed, the memory crept in. It always did.
My mother's laughter. Soft, warm, and full of life. The way she used to hum absentmindedly while cooking. The last time I held her hand, feeling her strength slipping away with every passing second. Cancer had stolen her, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but whispered goodbyes and the quiet hum of machines.
The ache settled deep in my chest, familiar and unshakable. But today, it wasn't crushing. It was just there. A part of me. And maybe, for the first time, I could breathe through it.
I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders as I stepped out of the shower. The warmth clung to my skin as I wrapped a towel around me. Steam curled around the bathroom, carrying the last notes of lavender with it.
I pulled open my wardrobe, fingers hovering over a crisp shirt and tailored pants. The fabric felt familiar and sharp against my skin. I liked the structure, the neatness of it. A clean shirt, pressed and perfect, gave me the illusion of control. Even if everything else in my life felt like it was slipping through my fingers, my appearance was something I could rely on to stay grounded.
The tie was the last touch, its deep color pulling everything together.
The familiar aroma of black coffee filled my space as I poured the coffee into my mug. The first sip was always the best. Bitter, rich, and energizing. As the warmth spread through me, the taste sharp against my tongue, a memory surfaced, soft yet vivid.
Mornings with Mom had been different. The scent of tea leaves and ginger would fill the air as she carefully poured steaming chai into two mismatched mugs. Hers a faded blue, mine a chipped white one with tiny red flowers. She would blow gently on the surface before handing me my cup, her eyes crinkling with a knowing smile.
"Careful, love." She would say, even though I had heard the warning a hundred times before.
I could almost hear the soft clinking of her spoon against the ceramic, stirring in just a little more milk for me. She always said tea was best when shared, when sipped slowly, when accompanied by stories and she had plenty of those. Stories about her childhood, about the dreams she once had, about the way the world could be both cruel and kind.
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the memory wrap around me like a familiar embrace. But as I opened them, the warmth faded, leaving behind only the silence of my apartment and the bitter taste of coffee. Tea had been hers. Coffee was mine. A habit born from necessity, from moving forward. But some mornings like this one, I longed for the taste of spiced chai and my mother's laughter filling the room.
The day had officially begun, but a part of me still lingered in the past.
As I walked toward the bus stop, my thoughts were on her. She always insisted on walking me to school when I was little, holding my hand tightly as we weaved through the busy streets. I remembered how she would point out to how the sky changed colors just before sunrise, how the street vendors set up their stalls, the way the world seemed to come alive piece by piece.
Now, my mornings were different. The house met its needs. Just enough space to call home, a roof over my head, and a place for Denise. It wasn't much, but it was ours. And while I didn't have to worry about rent thanks to my mother's foresight, there was still bills, food, the constant weight of making ends meet. My job as a secretary wasn't glamorous, and it wasn't something I had dreamed of, but it kept things running. For that, I was grateful.
"Every morning is a new beginning," she would say. "No matter what happened yesterday, today is a chance to start fresh."
I held onto those words as I boarded one of the usual matatus. My fingers gripped at the cold metal rail. The bus was nearly full, and a flicker of worry passed through me. Would I be late for work? But just as I scanned the rows, I spotted an empty seat.
Settling in, I barely noticed the person beside me at first. Just another commuter, lost in their own thoughts, just as I was. The city moved outside the window in a blur, and for a moment, I let myself sink into the past again. The warmth of my mother's hand, the smell of her morning tea, the sound of her voice soothing me in ways I hadn't realized I needed until she was gone.
I blinked, forcing myself back to the present.
The bus moved steadily through the morning rush, the murmurs of conversations, the occasional laugh, and the conductor's sharp calls blending into the usual city symphony.
The voices around me broke my focus and before I knew it, I was glancing at the man beside me. He was a quiet presence. Tall, dark-skinned, well-composed and dressed in denim from head to toe. He looked effortlessly put together, the fabric worn just enough to hint at a man who had lived. His sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing strong forearms, and his hands rested easily on his lap, fingers relaxed yet aware.
He wasn't old, perhaps thirty-five, but something in the way he carried himself made him seem older—wiser. A man who had walked through fire but never spoke of the burns. He sat still, observant, uninterested in the restless energy around him. Not cautious, not paranoid—just aware.
His hair, thick and neatly trimmed, framed his face, deep waves catching the light. The kind of hair that made you wonder if he ran a hand through it when lost in thought—or if someone else had traced their fingers through it, memorizing the feel.
Intriguing.
His gaze, sharp yet unreadable, carried stories he wasn't ready to tell. And yet, I found myself wondering.
Then, he spoke. A voice deep yet soft, commanding without trying. Each word deliberate, as if he never wasted them. It pulled me in, not because I couldn't hear, but because it felt like something worth hearing.
And then, that smile. Slow, unforced, revealing a small tooth gap—an imperfection that made him more human. The quiet intensity in his eyes, the composure in his demeanor, and then that unexpected warmth.
In that moment, the space between us shifted. Less like two strangers on a bus.
"What's your name?" He asked in his low voice, almost careful as if he didn't want to disturb the delicate space between us. There was something about the way he said it. It was not just a question, it was a thread he was offering me to pull, to weave something between us.
I swallowed suddenly aware of how fast my heart was beating. I met his gaze my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm Janica." I felt it settle between us. Hanging in the air like something sacred.
"Janica" He repeated it, slow and deliberate as if savouring the word. The way he said it sent shivers down my spine. I was obsessed, utterly taken by this man I'd just met.
The way his lips curved slightly, the way he seemed to memorize my name as if he'd kept it tucked away for later. I wanted to hear him say it again. I wanted to know what my name sounded like on his lips in every kind of way. In laughter, whisper maybe even in plea.
I looked at him, completely lost in the way his lips had just formed my name, how it lingered between us like an unfinished sentence. My mind raced, my heart hammering against my ribs, and before I even knew what I was doing, I opened my mouth and murmured something. Something quiet, something instinctive.
But the moment it left my lips, it was gone. I couldn't even grasp what I had said, only that it had been meant for him, only that it had been honest.
His brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in his deep brown eyes. "What was that?" he asked, tilting his head, leaning in just enough to make me hyper-aware of how little space was between us.
Heat rose to my cheeks. I blinked, struggling to retrace my own words, but they had vanished into the hum of the bus, lost to the air between us. "I… I don't remember." He chuckled, the sound rich and warm, and something about it made my stomach tighten. "Now I'm really curious."
I bit my lip, torn between embarrassment and the undeniable pull of him. Maybe it didn't matter what I had said. Maybe what mattered was that, for a moment, I had been so caught up in him that I forgot myself. And somehow, that felt like the most dangerous and most thrilling thing of all.
I stole glances, drawn to the crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he laughed, the rhythmic tap of his fingers against his knee. When our hands brushed reaching for the same pole, a quiet spark settled in my chest—slow, lingering, impossible to ignore.
His laughter still lingered in the space between us, low and warm, like the kind of sound I'd want to hear again and again. I was still flustered, still trying to figure out what I had even said, when I felt his hand, light and steady, resting on my shoulder.
It wasn't urgent, not demanding. Just… there. A simple touch, yet it sent a slow, electric warmth through me. His fingers barely pressed, just enough to ground me, to make me feel the weight of him, the reality of the moment.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice softer now, laced with something like quiet concern, or maybe curiosity.
I swallowed, but I couldn't bring myself to move away. "Yeah," I managed, though my voice betrayed me, just the slightest bit breathless.
His thumb brushed the fabric of my sleeve absentmindedly, and I swore the whole world outside the bus faded. It was just us, caught in this quiet, unexpected pull.
The bus slowed as we approached the next stop, and just when I thought the moment couldn't feel more suspended in time, he spoke again, his voice quieter this time, a touch of something bittersweet in it.
"My stop's next," he said, the words hanging in the air between us.
I felt a pang sharp and sudden as if the ground beneath me was shifting. The connection we'd shared in such a short time, the warmth of his touch, the way we had fallen into this easy rhythm, suddenly felt fragile, like it could slip away as quickly as it had come.
I glanced at him, trying to steady myself, but his smile was soft, like he understood the unspoken weight of those words. "I didn't think I'd enjoy this ride so much," he added, his gaze lingering on me for just a moment longer than it should have, the unspoken message clear.
"Me neither," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.
The bus pulled to a stop, and he stood, his hand briefly brushing my shoulder again. For a moment, it felt like I was holding my breath, waiting for him to say something more, anything more. He hesitated. His body tensed, his brows drawing together as if caught in a moment of indecision.
Something deep and unreadable flickered in his eyes. Slowly, he reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the fabric before pulling out a sleek card. The weight of it in his hand felt significant, like a secret he wasn't sure he should share.
Our eyes met, and for a split second, everything around us disappeared. There was only him, and there was only me.
"I was going to keep this to myself," he murmured, his voice low, almost hesitant. A small, unreadable smile tugged at his lips, but his fingers tightened around the card, as if giving it away was a decision he wasn't entirely ready for. "But I think you might want it."
My breath hitched, my pulse an unsteady rhythm beneath my skin. What was it? What did he mean?
His fingers finally released, slipping the card into my palm, his touch lingering just long enough to make my skin burn. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he turned, ready to leave.
My gaze followed him, tracing the effortless way he moved. The quiet confidence in his stride, the way the light caught in his hair. He was leaving, and I knew he had to, but something inside me screamed to make him stay.
Just as he reached the door, he turned one last time, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.
"Take care, Janica," he said, his voice softer now, like a whisper meant only for me.
And then, he was gone. The doors hissed shut, and the bus rumbled forward, but the world still felt frozen in that moment.
I curled my fingers around the card, my pulse hammering. It was warm from his touch. What was it he had given me? And why did it feel like it had changed everything.
I stared at the curled card in my fingers, the weight of his gesture sinking in. It wasn't just a card, it was an invitation, a chance for something more, even though I hadn't dared to think about it.
My day was rough, and work felt impossible. No matter how hard I tried to focus, my mind kept drifting back to him. His voice, his touch, the way he had said my name. It played over and over in my head, looping like a song I couldn't shake.
For so long, my thoughts had been consumed by memories of my mother but today, something had shifted. Today, my mind wasn't filled with the scent of her tea or the sound of her laughter. Instead, it was him.
I sighed, staring blankly at my screen as the words in my emails blurred together. I barely noticed June hovering beside my desk.
"Janica." Her voice pulled me back.
I turned to face her, blinking. "What?"
She squinted at me, her arms crossed. "I've been calling your name for the last minute. You okay?"
I forced a smile, but June wasn't buying it. She leaned in, lowering her voice. "You're acting weird. Like, really weird. "
"It's nothing," I said quickly, shaking my head. "Just a long morning."
June raised an eyebrow. "Mhm. Sure." She didn't believe me, but she let it slide.
I turned back to my screen, trying to work, but my mind refused to obey. Because no matter how much I tried to push it away, there he was. And I wasn't sure I wanted him to leave.
By the time my shift ended, I was practically buzzing with the need to talk to Denise. She was the only one who could truly understand how ridiculous and incredible this felt. The way a single encounter had unraveled me, replacing the usual weight of my thoughts with something new, something unexpected.
Denise had always been my anchor. My ride-or-die, the one person who never judged, never questioned. We had been through everything together, from late-night study sessions in college to the silent grief that settled over my life after my mother passed. She had been there, moving in with me when the loneliness threatened to consume me. And now, even as she searched tirelessly for a job in the city she never failed to show up for me.
But today, she wasn't here. She was still away, checking on her grandmother. And without her, I felt restless, unsure of what to do with all these feelings.
I sighed, stepping out into the cool evening air. Normally, I would have gone straight home, let the rhythm of routine carry me away. But tonight, I hesitated. The city pulsed around me. Neon signs flickering, cars weaving through traffic, distant laughter spilling from restaurants. The world moved as it always did, but I felt stuck.
My fingers twitched toward my bag, where his card lay hidden, waiting. A part of me wanted to pull it out, let my thumb trace over the print, dial the number. Maybe I didn't need to wait for Denise. Maybe, just this once, I could let myself lean into the unknown but it was impossible.
I could already hear Denise's voice in my head. She'd roll her eyes first, then demand every single detail. What did he look like? What exactly did he say? And why haven't you called him yet?!
I sighed again, pulling out my phone, staring at the dark screen as if it held the answer. Call him? Text him? Wait?
One thing was certain. I wouldn't survive another workday like this, stuck in my own head, replaying our conversation over and over. I needed Denise's no-nonsense wisdom.
And finally, she was back.
Her suitcase lay half-unpacked in the middle of our apartment, clothes spilling out like she had abandoned the effort halfway through. She flopped onto the couch with an exhausted sigh, rubbing her temples before cracking one eye open at me.
"Well?" she drawled. "What did I miss?
I had been waiting for this moment for two days, yet now that it was here, I hesitated. Jason's card was still tucked inside my bag, untouched except for the countless times I had pulled it out just to stare at his name. Jason Morara. It felt both familiar and foreign at the same time, like a story I hadn't finished reading.
Denise raised an eyebrow when I didn't answer right away. "Uh-oh," she said, sitting up. "I know that look. Spill."
I took a deep breath, grabbed my bag, and pulled out the card, holding it up like a piece of evidence. "I met someone."
Denise's eyes widened, then she snatched the card from my hand before I could protest. "Jason Morara," she read aloud, then looked at me, expectant. "And you're just now telling me this?"
I groaned, sinking into the couch beside her. "It's been two days, and I still haven't called him.