In a poignant narrative of love, longing, and the tumultuous journey of self-discovery, meet Serwaa a young woman whose pursuit of a brighter future leads her down a path of regret, heartache, and unexpected twists. After turning down a marriage pro...
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Letting go isn't always the hardest thing to do; trust me, it's the memories your heart holds onto that hurt the most.
The ride back home with Henry was quite intense. He didn't bother to speak or look at me.
I kept crying deep within, feeling extremely anxious about everything that just happened with Kofi. I needed to see him; I had to find out something. Was he okay? I couldn't help but feel that this was all my fault.
"We are here," Henry said, taking a turn in front of Layla's apartment. He then let out a deep, weary sigh, and I hesitated to step out of the car because, as usual, I was expecting him to open the door for me. But this time, he didn't; instead, he looked straight ahead.
"Henry, I am sorry," I apologized. Guess that was what I should have done from the very start – apologize and let him know that I felt bad for embarrassing him in front of his best friend.
"I am not mad at you, just confused. Why are you so interested in Kofi's life? What were you two talking about? I need to know what's going on, Serwaa."
That was the very first time Henry had spoken to me in an angry tone, and it was shameful. Having him talk to me like that broke me.
"I am not interested in his life," I stuttered. This was starting to get really uncomfortable.
"But Bianca said—"
"Bianca knows nothing. She has these assumptions in her head that aren't right," I murmured, my voice croaking as I forced those lies out of my mouth. Manipulating Henry into believing that I was innocent was easy. Yes, I felt guilty, but I wasn't ready to give Henry any information about my past, and it felt like he was pushing me to open up to him all too soon.
"I hear you," he cleared his throat and faked a smile. "Call me when you feel better, and I'm sorry about what Bianca did."
"Okay," I replied softly, alighting from the car. He was mad at me, and I could feel it. Why did he always conceal what he was going through?
Upon second thought, maybe that was for the best. I was already feeling bad; I didn't need him to make me feel any worse. Yet there was this saying that silence kills, and his quietude and acceptance to every explanation I gave was surely killing me.
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