Soft Goodbyes, Quiet Hellos

Siphosethu Zulu

The apartment smelled like him.

Like that stupid vanilla-cedarwood cologne he wore too much of. Like old socks and cocoa butter. Like memories.

I stood in the doorway longer than I should've, fingers wrapped around the set of keys he pressed into my palm two days ago.

"Take care of the place," he said.

But we both knew what he really meant was, Take care of yourself. Come back here when it gets too loud. Too quiet. Too much.

And it was too much.

Katlego was gone.

Off chasing national colours and football dreams across oceans and time zones, while I was stuck in Pretoria with textbooks, lab coats, and the weight of deadlines.

I should've been happy for him.

I was.

But I also hated how empty my Sundays felt. How I'd reach for my phone a dozen times before reminding myself the time difference made calls impossible.

He left with a kiss on my forehead, a playlist titled "For When You Miss Me," and one hoodie too many shoved into my bag.

I wore that hoodie every night.

Even when it was 26 degrees.

Even when I didn't want to cry.

Especially when I did.

Katlego Moeketsi

Everything was louder in Europe.

The stadiums. The locker rooms. The pressure.

Everything but the sound I missed most — her laugh when she was annoyed with me. That little "ugh, Katlego" that somehow always meant I love you.

Game day was war. And I was on the frontlines.

But every night, when the lights dimmed in hotel rooms that didn't smell like home, I'd check my phone for her texts.

And she always left one.

Even if it was just, Still breathing. Still missing you.

She didn't talk about her practicals much, except to say, "They want to kill us. Literally." But I could tell she was burning herself out — because that's what she did when life scared her. She threw herself into books like they'd build her a bridge out of pain.

I didn't know how to help from here.

So I just sent voice notes. Funny ones. Sweet ones. Long, rambling ones about how our new coach talks like a Bond villain.

And sometimes, when the homesickness hit me hard, I'd re-listen to hers.

The one where she whispered, Come back safe, Kat. Don't let the world take away the softness in you.

Siphosethu

The practicals were brutal.

Early mornings. Late nights. Constant performance.

Every time I made a mistake, I imagined Katlego patting my head and saying, "You're human, baby. Breathe." But he wasn't here.

And so, I drowned in work.

I said no when Nthabiseng invited me out. Again. And again. And again.

"You can't keep hiding in that boy's apartment like it's a second skin," she finally snapped.

I didn't reply.

Because she was right.

But that didn't stop me.

Every Friday after rounds, I packed my bag, called a Bolt, and went straight to his place.

It felt like a temple. A time capsule.

His sneakers by the door. The photo of us from that arcade date — my lipstick on his cheek, his grin stretched too wide.

I'd crawl into his bed and close my eyes, trying to remember the weight of his arms. The warmth of his breath behind my ear. The stupid way he snored at 3 a.m.

The silence was the loudest part.

Katlego Moeketsi

I missed her.

More than I missed home. More than I missed pap and chakalaka.

More than I missed sleep.

We won two games in a row.

My phone lit up with headlines. Agents. Interviews.

But the only notification that mattered was her message: I'm proud of you. Even when you're far.

I sent back a picture of my new boots.

She replied with, Still not as fine as you, but okay.

I laughed out loud on the bus and the boys teased me for being soft.

I didn't care.

They didn't know how it felt to have a girl like Siphosethu rooting for you from across the world. The kind of girl who held her own in scrubs and sneakers.

I was falling harder than I'd planned.

Maybe I already had.

Siphosethu

The call from home came during lunch.

I almost didn't answer.

Then I saw the name: Lwandile (Big Head Brother).

I slid out of the cafeteria and picked up.

"Sethu! Sbu wants to talk to you!"

I barely got a "Hello" in before my five-year-old brother hijacked the line.

"Setthhuuuu! Are you coming home to make pap? Daddy doesn't put butter in the mash, he's boring!"

I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my water.

Then my father came on.

His voice was softer than usual. Tired. "Hey, my girl. Just checking in. You okay?"

I hadn't heard that voice since... Before the awkward silences. Before everything fell apart.

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"Yeah. I'm okay, Daddy."

I wasn't.

But I wanted him to believe I was.

We didn't talk long. But long enough for me to promise Sbu a drawing book and Lwandile a new charger — again.

I hung up and stared at the sky for a long time.

Missed my mom.

And Katlego.

Always, always Katlego.

Katlego Moeketsi

We lost the third game.

I played badly.

Coach yelled.

I cried in the shower. Quietly.

I wanted to text her, but I didn't want to dump sadness on her already overworked brain.

So I just typed: Still breathing. Still missing you.

She replied minutes later: Come home safe. We still need to finish "the vampire diaries".

I smiled.

Because somehow, even from a continent away, she still knew how to hold me.

I went to his apartment that weekend.

Again.

I cleaned out his fridge. Washed his laundry. Played his music too loud and danced in his T-shirt with mismatched socks.

Then I lay on his couch and whispered into the silence, "You better come back."

I imagined him replying, I will, baby. I always do.

Katlego Moeketsi

I kept her picture in my locker.

Right next to my prayer beads and my mom's rosary.

Before every game, I'd kiss my fingers and tap it twice.

For luck. For love. For Sethu.

Because no matter where this game takes me...

She's the one I play for.

Siphosethu Zulu

They say distance is a test.

But for us?

It's just another chapter.

Another battle.

Another page.

And I'll keep showing up in his absence...

Until I can show up in his arms again.

To Be Continued...
💌 Distance means nothing when hearts speak the same language.