Silent Battles

Siphosethu Zulu

It's the end of November. Campus is slowly emptying out. Laughter in the corridors fades earlier now — bags packed, exams done, everyone going back to where they came from.

Me? I buried myself in textbooks. Not because I was driven. Not because I wanted distinctions.

But because it was easier than thinking of him.

Each chapter I read, each highlighter stroke, was a silent war against the memory of his scent, his embrace, his voice whispering, "somewhere safe, my love."

Ugh. I hated how those words still lingered in my mind like perfume on a scarf I couldn't wash.

I'd told Nthabiseng about deleting his number.

"You sure?" she'd asked with raised eyebrows, "Not blocking him is like leaving your door unlocked and hoping he won't knock."

"I just..." I paused, struggling to find words. "Blocking feels too final. Like betrayal."

"But you deleted his number?"

I nodded.

"Then you're halfway in and halfway out, Sethu. That's not healing, that's hoping."

Maybe she was right. Maybe I was hoping.

But I couldn't say it aloud — that some foolish part of me still replayed his laugh, still wondered what he'd text if he could. That some secret version of me still wanted him to fight for me.

Still wished I hadn't pushed him away.

Now my bags were packed. Tomorrow I'd be on a flight back home — dusty roads, my siblings' chaos, the smell of my father's cooking.

But deep down, underneath the pride, the Zulu boldness, and the ache of abandonment... was a whisper.

A quiet, dangerous whisper that wished he'd ask to see me before I left.

And that maybe... just maybe... I wouldn't say no.

Katlego Moeketsi

I didn't know what to do.

She pushed me away and I respected that. Sort of. Because deep down, I wanted to call her again and again — show up, explain, say something smooth that could undo the look she gave me that night. But I didn't. Instead, I booked a last-minute ticket to Botswana. My gran's place.

No cameras there. No agents. Just dust roads, cows mooing at the break of dawn, and her smile — the only one that never judged me by my fame.

"You're too thin," she said, pulling me in with those strong arms. "You work too hard, Kat."

I didn't reply. Just smiled.

How do I even explain that the pressure's thicker than ever? Germany is calling — one of the biggest tournaments of my career. Scouts. Contracts. Headlines. I should be over the moon.

But I'm not.

Because someone who barely knew me — who didn't ask for selfies or scream my name — touched me in a way even football never has.

Siphosethu.

The girl with the soft eyes and hard walls. The girl who flinched when I got too close. The same one who didn't believe she was worth being loved by someone like me.

But she was.

She is.

Tlotli told me to chill. "You said your piece. She needs time to digest. You can't force love, Kat."

I hated that he was right.

So I ran away to my roots, to home, to where love meant feeding goats and watching sunsets. Maybe she needed silence to hear her own feelings.

And maybe, when the timing's right, she'll hear mine again — in person.

But right now... I've got boots to lace, drills to sweat through, and a tournament to win.

For her.
For me.
For the boy who loved with no PR team behind it.

Siphosethu Zulu

Home. The word should have felt like comfort. Instead, it felt like a cage.

The familiar hum of the television filled the living room as my father and Lwandile sat side by side, eyes glued to the screen. The name "Katlego Moeketsi" came up again and again—his skills, his goals, his fame.

"Look at him, Sethu," Lwandile said, his voice full of admiration. "That guy's unstoppable."

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly tight. The room felt smaller, the air heavier. My fingers clenched around the edge of the sofa, knuckles whitening as I fought to keep my voice steady.

"Yeah," I said softly, forcing a casual smile. "He's good."

But inside, a war was raging. How could I explain the pain that twisted in my chest every time they praised him? How could I tell them about the nights I lay awake thinking of him, the stolen moments, the kiss I replayed over and over, the hope I was too scared to admit?

I could feel the weight of my secret pressing down, threatening to spill out in tears or anger. Instead, I put on my mask—the quiet, composed girl who didn't let anything show.

Sbusiso tugged at my sleeve, his innocent eyes full of trust. "Play with me, Sethu."

I forced a smile and stood up, pushing the torment away for a moment. Kicking the old ball back and forth with him, I tried to breathe in the simple joy, but even his laughter couldn't drown out the ache.

Katlego's name lingered like a shadow. My family saw a hero on the screen. I saw everything I was afraid to lose.

I buried my feelings deeper. Here, at home, I had to be strong. Because no one knew the war inside me.