Between

Chapter 1: The Number

It was a Sunday morning.

One of those mornings that didn’t feel like anything special at the time. Just routine. Church clothes. Movement. Noise. The kind of morning where everything is happening, but nothing feels like it matters yet.

I was fifteen then.

I went to church with my mum and siblings, but we weren’t seated together. Somewhere in the usual flow of people entering, sitting, adjusting, I ended up at the very back with my friends.

That part of church always felt different.

Up front, everything was structured—quiet, orderly, controlled. But at the back, things were looser. People still participated, but there was space for distraction. Small conversations. Laughing under your breath. Passing time in ways that made the service feel less long than it actually was.

That’s where I was with Sam.

Sam was one of my friends. He had just finished his final exams before entering high school. He was younger than me, but at that time, age didn’t really mean much. We were all just boys trying to make long Sunday mornings feel shorter.

We were doing what we always did—talking about random things, joking, looking around, not really focused on anything serious.

Then Sam mentioned something different.

He said he had met a girl.

At first, it sounded like one of those normal stories people say just to pass time. Something you listen to, laugh at, and forget a few minutes later. But then he pulled out his phone.

He showed me her.

I still remember that moment, not because it was dramatic, but because it was the first time she entered the story.

There was no background music, no special feeling in the air. Just a phone screen and an image.

She had glasses. Not flashy, just simple. Stiff African braids that were neatly done, the kind that made her look very put together. A brown top and blue jeans. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing loud. Just ordinary details that somehow stayed in my mind longer than they should have.

She looked like someone our age. Someone who had just finished exams, just like Sam said.

I didn’t overthink it at first.

It was just a girl my friend had met.

But then something small shifted.

I asked Sam for her number.

It wasn’t a planned decision. It just came out naturally, almost before I had time to think about whether I should ask or not.

Sam said no.

Not aggressively. Just a simple refusal. Like it wasn’t even something worth discussing further.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t insist. I just let it go in that moment. But even though I dropped it outwardly, something about it stayed somewhere in the background of my mind.

The service continued. The morning continued. Life continued as normal.

But at some point later, when we were still moving around, still talking, still distracted, I took his phone.

It wasn’t a big dramatic moment. No planning. No hesitation that I can clearly remember now. Just a quick decision in a passing moment.

I found the number.

I saved it on my phone.

Then I told him afterward.

He wasn’t angry. There was no argument. No tension. It was brushed off easily, like something that didn’t really matter enough to become a problem between friends.

And after that, I forgot about it.

At least, that’s what I thought at the time.

---

About a week later, I was at home.

It was a normal day. The kind of day that doesn’t leave any strong memory behind. Nothing special happened. Nothing unusual.

Then I remembered the number.

It didn’t come with a clear intention. It just appeared in my mind like something that had been sitting in the background and suddenly came forward.

I stared at my phone for a while.

I didn’t know what I was actually trying to do.

Texting felt too indirect. Too uncertain. Too easy to ignore.

Calling felt more real, but also more serious. More direct. Once you call, there’s no hiding behind time.

So I hesitated.

Not for seconds—but for longer than that. Thinking about what I would even say. Thinking about whether it made sense to even try.

Eventually, I decided I would call.

But even after deciding, I didn’t do it immediately.

There was a gap between intention and action.

That gap is where all the doubt lives.

Later that evening, I finally did it.

I dialed the number.

The phone rang.

Those few seconds felt longer than they should have. Not because anything dramatic was happening, but because my mind was filling the silence with possibilities—what if she didn’t pick up, what if this was stupid, what if this goes nowhere.

Then she answered.

“Hello?”

Her voice was calm. Slightly high-pitched, but soft. Controlled. Not loud or sharp. Just steady in a way that made it easy to listen to.

For a moment, I didn’t immediately respond.

Then I said, “Hello.”

Another small pause followed. The kind of pause where two strangers are trying to figure out what this moment actually is.

Then I started explaining.

I told her I had found her number in my phone and wasn’t really sure who it belonged to, so I was calling to confirm.

There was a pause on her side.

Then she reacted with surprise.

“Oh really?” she said, followed by a small laugh.

Not mocking. Not dismissive. Just surprised amusement—like the situation didn’t fully make sense to her yet.

I continued talking.

I added that maybe someone had called her from my phone and saved her number, but I couldn’t really tell who it was.

Even while I was speaking, I knew the explanation wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t really about being perfect. It was just a way to keep the conversation going.

And it worked.

We started talking.

At first, it was careful. Slightly uncertain. Two people trying to understand how to speak to each other without knowing the boundaries yet.

But it didn’t end quickly.

We stayed on the call long enough for it to stop feeling like an accident and start feeling like an interaction.

Then, somewhere in that conversation, I said it.

I said we could be friends.

There wasn’t a deep strategy behind it. No hidden meaning. It was just the simplest way to keep the moment from ending awkwardly.

She agreed.

Her voice when she agreed stayed with me more than anything else in that call. Soft, slightly high, calm—but real.

And just like that, the call ended without anything dramatic happening.

No big conclusion. No realization. No shift in life that I could immediately recognize.

Just a phone call between two people who didn’t know they had just started something that would continue.

But even after it ended, I remember sitting there with my phone in my hand, not thinking anything specific—just aware that something had changed, even if I couldn’t explain how.

After that, we started talking properly.

Texting. Calling. Sending pictures. Small conversations that slowly became regular.

No plan. No definition.

Just communication that kept continuing.

And that was how it began.

---

Chapter 2: On and Off

After that first call, we continued talking as friends.

It wasn’t structured, and it wasn’t consistent. There was no fixed routine to it. It was just something that existed whenever it could exist. No planning, no expectations around timing—just communication when both sides happened to be available.

At that time, I was in high school, moving through different stages of school life. She was also in her own school journey, just at a different stage entirely.

Both of our schools were boarding schools.

And that detail shaped everything more than it seemed to at the time.

In boarding school, time didn’t really feel like something you controlled.

It was something you followed.

You woke up at a fixed hour whether you were ready or not. The bell dictated movement before you even fully opened your eyes properly. You lined up, went through morning routines, and moved into classes that stretched the day forward in a very structured way.

The school day was divided into blocks—classes, break time, prep time, evening study, lights out. Every single day followed the same pattern, almost like repetition was part of the design.

After a while, the days started blending into each other.

What made it even more distant was communication.

Phones were not part of normal school life.

Most of the time, you didn’t have access to them freely. Even if someone had a phone, it wasn’t something you could openly use. It had to be hidden carefully, taken out at the right moment, and used quickly before anyone noticed.

Some students managed to sneak phones into school and keep them quietly. Others didn’t have that option at all.

And when you needed to actually call someone, there were only a few ways—sometimes you used a public phone outside school, sometimes a small shop nearby where you paid for a short call, and sometimes you just waited for holidays when everything became easier.

Because of that, communication was never constant.

It wasn’t like modern messaging where people reply instantly.

It came in fragments.

Small windows where timing, access, and opportunity all aligned at once.

So without ever discussing it, our communication adapted to that environment.

We would talk when one of us was at home.

If I was at school, there would be silence.

If she was at school, there would be silence.

It wasn’t something we explained to each other. It was just something that became obvious through repetition.

There were many small moments that defined this phase, even though they didn’t feel important at the time.

Sometimes I would be at home, sitting quietly in my room.

The room would be silent except for small background noises from outside—distant voices, movement in the house, or the occasional sound of something being done in another room.

I would take out my phone without any real urgency.

Unlock it.

Scroll without purpose.

Open contacts.

Stop on her name.

And then just pause.

Sometimes I would lock the phone again immediately.

Other times I would sit there for a while longer, just holding it, thinking without fully thinking.

It wasn’t hesitation in a dramatic sense. It was just that small space between intention and action where nothing is decided yet.

Eventually, at some point, I would call.

Not always immediately.

Sometimes after a few minutes.

Sometimes after longer.

But always in a quiet moment.

One moment from that period still stands out clearly.

I had gone home unexpectedly from school. I don’t remember exactly whether it was a weekend or a break between school schedules, but I remember being at home—completely outside the usual structure of boarding school life.

No classes. No prep. No schedule controlling the day.

Just open time.

At some point during the day, I found myself thinking about calling her.

It wasn’t planned. It didn’t come with intention. It was just one of those thoughts that appears quietly and stays there.

I remember taking my phone and sitting with it for a while.

Not doing anything immediately.

Just holding it.

Turning it slightly in my hand without noticing.

Then I unlocked it.

Opened contacts.

Scrolled slowly.

Found her name.

Paused.

Locked the phone again.

Put it down for a moment.

Looked around the room for no reason at all, like my brain was waiting for something to make the decision easier.

Then I picked it up again.

Unlocked it again.

This time, I stayed on her contact longer.

Still not calling.

Just there.

That small delay between thinking and doing something.

Eventually, I pressed call.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

I shifted slightly where I was sitting without even realising it.

Then it rang again.

And she picked up.

“Hello?”

Her voice came through clearly, but there was faint background noise on her side—movement, maybe people around her, maybe she wasn’t alone in complete silence.

For a moment, I didn’t respond immediately.

Not because I didn’t hear her—but because I wasn’t expecting her to answer at that exact moment.

Then I spoke.

“Hey…”

A short pause followed.

And then it happened almost at the same time.

“Oh—you’re home?” I said.

At nearly the same moment, she reacted with the same surprise.

There was a brief silence after that. Not awkward, just unexpected.

Because this wasn’t how it usually went.

Most of the time, timing didn’t align. If I called, she was usually in school or busy. If she called, I was the one unavailable. It was always one-sided in timing.

But this time, both of us had just happened to be home at the same moment without knowing.

“You’re also home?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I replied. “I just got back not long ago.”

I leaned back slightly where I was sitting without really noticing it. The tension of expecting something uncertain had already dropped because the surprise of connection had already happened.

The conversation continued from there.

At first, it was simple.

School updates. General talk. Things that didn’t really carry weight on their own but filled the space between us naturally.

There were pauses in between sentences. Moments where neither of us rushed to fill silence. Just small gaps where the conversation could breathe on its own.

At one point, I remember looking around my room again while she was talking, not because I was distracted, but just because I was listening more than speaking.

The call lasted longer than usual.

Not because anything important was being discussed, but because neither of us expected it to happen at that exact time. So there was no urgency to end it quickly.

It just existed.

Naturally.

Like time wasn’t being measured the same way it usually was.

Eventually, the conversation started slowing down.

Shorter replies.

Longer pauses.

That gradual shift where both sides start to feel that the call is reaching its natural end.

“Alright then,” I said.

“Okay,” she replied.

And the call ended.

After I hung up, I stayed still for a moment.

Phone still in my hand.

Not thinking anything specific. Just sitting in that quiet space that follows a conversation.

Then I placed the phone down and went on with the rest of my day like normal.

But that moment stayed somewhere in the background of memory.

Not because it changed everything.

But because it was rare.

Two separate lives.

Two different school routines.

Briefly overlapping at the exact same time without planning.

And at that stage in life, that was enough.

Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.

• Hughes