December Recess & Goodbye

Siphosethu Zulu

It's the last day before we all scatter—some going home to tiny villages, some to cities bursting with fireworks and festive chaos. The campus is quiet. Too quiet. Birds still chirp, but the human buzz has stilled, like the university itself is holding its breath before the holidays begin.

I stand by the gate with my bag slung over my shoulder and a knot in my throat. Luyanda is late, as usual.

I scroll through my phone, pretending not to search for his name.

And then he arrives.

Running.

Grinning.

Breathless.

With his arms already outstretched.

He pulls me into him so tightly that I nearly drop my bag.

"You thought I'd let you leave without saying goodbye properly?" he whispers against my hair.

"I was hoping," I whisper back, smiling into his chest.

We stay like that for a moment—frozen in time while the world continues around us.

He pulls away slightly, only enough to look into my eyes. "You'll be okay, right?"

"I'll miss you."

"Not the same thing."

He leans in and kisses my forehead first, then my nose, then finally my lips—slow, warm, and deep enough to linger even after he's gone.

Luyanda Dhlamini

I'm not good with goodbyes.

Not because I'm overly emotional.

But because when someone like Siphosethu walks into your life, and you've spent months helping her unlearn heartbreak, teaching her what softness means—you get scared that distance might undo everything.

She looks up at me, already glowing under the summer sun.

"I packed a surprise for you," she says, handing me a small envelope.

Inside: a photo of us from our bookstore date, a tiny gold paper star, and a handwritten note.

"For the boy who taught me that love isn't loud. It's consistent.
If ever I forget, remind me."

I fold it slowly and keep it in my wallet.

She bites her lip, uncertain. "Do we say goodbye, or see you soon?"

"See you soon, Nkhosazane."

Siphosethu

The silence here is louder than campus. No buzz of late-night coffee machines. No Nthabi's giggles. No Luyanda's slow, steady heartbeat beside me.

But there's peace.

And love, carried in voice notes and long phone calls.

Sometimes we send each other poetry. Sometimes we just fall asleep on call, breathing in sync.

I thought love was about proximity.

Turns out, it's about choosing the person even when they're not next to you.

And he keeps choosing me.

I keep choosing him.

This December, I let myself rest. I let my scars breathe.

I smile more.

Because I know that while the year may be ending...

My story—with him—is just beginning.

Luyanda Dhlamini

It's past midnight.

The fan hums softly in the corner of my room, and everyone else in the house is asleep. But me? I'm lying on my bed, phone in hand, staring at the last picture she sent me — that soft, sleepy smile of hers, eyes barely open, hoodie half on, half falling off her shoulder.

God, I miss her.

I try not to text. I try to act normal. Chill. Distant even. But she's in everything.

The way the kettle whistles reminds me of her laugh.

The quiet makes me crave her voice.

So I give in, like I always do.

I type, then erase. Type again. Breathe.

And then I send it.

"I know it's late. But I couldn't sleep. My heart kept tugging at me like a child refusing to let go of its favorite toy — and that toy is your voice, your laugh, the way you roll your eyes when I act dramatic.

I miss you, Sethu. In little ways and big ones. I miss the way your hand fits in mine and how your silence still says so much.

I'm lying in the dark, but it's your light I'm seeing. Your name echoing in my mind. I love you, and I want you to know that nothing feels quite right without you near.

Sleep peacefully, my Nkhosazane. Dream sweet. Dream safe. Dream us."

I stare at the screen.

"Delivered."

I know she's probably asleep. I know I won't get a reply now.

But I don't need one.

Sometimes, love is sending a message into the night — just to remind someone that they're never alone.

Siphosethu Zulu

The morning light filtered in through the floral curtains of our family house , painting soft yellow lines on the floor. Birds chirped. Home felt like peace.

I stretched, still wrapped in my fleece gown, rubbing sleep out of my eyes. It was my first proper morning at home since exams ended. I should've been drained — but my heart was light. Floating, even.

I reached for my phone under the pillow.

1 message.
Luyanda 💬
"I know it's late. But I couldn't sleep. My heart kept tugging at me like a child..."

I read it once. Then again. A third time.

My smile grew without permission.

I could almost hear his voice — the way he whispered my name like it was made of petals. My fingers danced over the screen as I began typing a reply. Something warm. Something teasing. Something like...

"Ngiyakukhumbula nami, Luyanda wami..."

Suddenly, my phone was snatched from my hand.

I gasped. "Lwandile!"

He stood there, shirtless in grey sweatpants, brows pulled tight like an overcast sky. Older brother mode was activated.

He scrolled through the message like it physically burned him. And then:

"Siphosethu Zulu! Usuyajola?!"

My breath caught.

"I—It's not—"

He raised the phone like evidence in a courtroom. "Weren't you the one who stood in that lounge and promised us, 'I'm going to be the first doctor in this family, angiyena owamajolo'? Now you're here blushing over boys? At home?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. I couldn't find the words.

"Unamahloni?" he snapped. "Because you should. Sipho, and you're chasing boys?"

"It's not like that!" I finally said. "Luyanda respects me. He knows I'm still—"

Before I could even finish, Baba's voice thundered from down the hallway.

"Kwenzakalani la?!"

Silence.

My father appeared at the door, tightening his robe, his face twisted with sleep and confusion. "Kukhala bani manje ekuseni kangaka?"

Lwandile stepped forward, puffed up with pride. "Baba, ngiyaxolisa. But I caught her flirting, being loose, with some guy. Look at this." He shoved the phone toward my father.

Baba read slowly. His lips tightened. His eyes flickered. And then—hurt. Deep, quiet hurt. A kind I wasn't ready for.

I felt my chest collapse.

"Sethu?" Baba asked, voice quieter now. "Uqomile?"

Tears burned the backs of my eyes.

"No, Baba. I—I like him, yes. But I'm still focused. I haven't—"

He cut me off. "Are you still a virgin?"

The room fell cold.

I swallowed hard. "Yebo."

Silence.

He looked away for a long second, rubbing the bridge of his nose like the weight of our ancestors rested there. Then he said, firmly but not unkindly:

"Ungakhohlwa uMemulo wakho, Sethu. Ungakhohlwa ukuthi uZulu ngumuntu wesiko. You can't let love take away your dignity."

I nodded, shame heavy in my throat.

Baba handed the phone back to Lwandile. "Susa . I don't want to see her distracted by anyone until I know she's where she promised she'd be."

"Ngiyezwa, Baba," he said.

And just like that—my phone was gone.

I watched my brother exit the room, typing furiously. Minutes later, I heard the unmistakable tone of a voice note being sent.

Lwandile's voice, to Luyanda:

"Lalela, mfana. Ungaphinde uxhumane nodadewethu. Ngeke sihlale sibukele wena udlala ngezingane zabantu. If I ever see your name on her phone again, sizoxoxa ngobuso nobuso. Ngiyabazi abantu abafana nawe . Hamba, mfowethu."

Blocked.

Just like that.

I sat on my bed, hands clenched into fists, heart racing.

I wasn't angry. I was embarrassed. Trapped. Torn.

I knew they loved me. I knew my father only wanted what was best. But my chest ached for the voice I wouldn't hear tonight. For the person who saw the scars and still stayed. For Luyanda.

And as my family moved on with their morning — dishes clinking, radios playing, breakfast sizzling in the kitchen — I sat there, hollowed out.

Not a child. Not yet free.

Caught between duty and love. Between isiko and independence. Between who I was raised to be... and the girl who was learning how to love. Morever i never said i wanted to give away my virginity like that.

Luyanda Dhlamini

I was sitting on the edge of my bed, still in last night's hoodie, sunlight warming the side of my face through the half-drawn curtain. My phone buzzed.

My heart skipped—Sethu?

But it wasn't her.

It was a voice note.

Sent from her number... but not her voice.

It was a guy. Angry. Sharp. Rough like steel dragging across tar.

"Lalela, mfana. Ungaphinde uxhumane nodadewethu..."

My heart dropped.

By the time the voice note ended, I was staring blankly at the screen, stunned.

Blocked.

Just like that.

No reply. No warning. Nothing from her.

Just... gone.

My chest grew tight as the silence around me echoed louder than the voice note itself. I played it again. Not because I needed to, but because some part of me hoped I misunderstood.

But it was clear.

I was the villain in their eyes. Just a boy with sweet words and dangerous hands. Just another man like the ones who broke her before.

They didn't even know me.

I stood up, pacing the floor.

"I'd never hurt her," I whispered to no one. "God, I'd never... I was going to protect her."

I stared at the messages we'd exchanged the past few days—screenshotting them before they could disappear. Her laughter. Her late-night voice notes where she read random poems to me.

My whole day had been wrapped around the idea of her smile. And now all I had was silence.

I wanted to fight.

I wanted to call.

But more than anything, I didn't want to make her life harder.

If that was her brother... and if they had taken her phone, she was probably already hurting.

If I pushed, I'd only make it worse for her.

So I put down the phone.

And I did the only thing I could.

I opened my journal.

"Dear Sethu,

I don't know if you'll ever read this.

Maybe it'll get lost between data bundles and deleted accounts and strict brothers. Maybe you'll forget me. Maybe I'll become another boy your brother warned you about. But just in case you're wondering—I didn't run.

I'm here.

I meant every word I said. About your eyes. About your future. About how I'd never rush you, or pressure you, or strip away your power just to feed mine.

I know the world hasn't been kind to girls like you. Girls who give love and never get it back right.

But if I ever get the chance again... I'll prove it differently.

I'll wait.

Even in silence.

Even if I'm just a memory."

– Luyanda

I closed the journal and rested my head against the wall.

Somewhere , she was hurting too—I could feel it.

And if this was the price I had to pay for loving a girl the right way, then let them misunderstand me. Let them think what they want.

Because real love is not performative.

It's patient.

And one day... maybe she'll find her way back.

And maybe this time, they'll see me for who I really am.