The Skeletons of My Past

"The heart remembers what the mind tries to forget." – Unknown

Luyanda Dhlamini

The campus café was half full, but the espresso machine screamed like it had something urgent to confess. I sat across from Nthabi, watching her stir her hot chocolate with deliberate focus—like she was avoiding the reason we were here.

Her lips were tight. Her brows furrowed.

Something was coming.

Finally, she looked up, eyes sharp. "You love her?"

I didn't even hesitate. "I do."

She leaned back slowly, eyes not leaving mine. "Good. Then you deserve to know what you're really up against."

I blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Nthabi sighed, setting the spoon down, both hands wrapping tightly around her cup like she needed grounding. "Sethu's heart isn't new. It's been dropped. Cracked. Maybe even broken in half. "

My stomach tightened.

She added. "Katlego Moeketsi ... a chapter she never finished reading. A fire she thought went out, but turns out, it just buried itself deeper."

I looked down at my hands. "Did she... love him?"

Nthabi's expression softened. "She was lost in him. The kind of love that makes you forget who you are. And when it ended? It wasn't clean. No closure. No goodbye. Just silence. And silence can haunt."

I closed my eyes for a moment. That explained the pause. The silence after I said "I love you."

"She saw him again," I said quietly.

"I know," Nthabi whispered. "And I saw her after. She was shaken, Lu. Like someone had just walked across her soul in muddy boots."

"She didn't say much to me," I admitted. "Just a small smile. A quiet goodnight. That's all."

Nthabi leaned in, eyes burning with intensity. "Listen to me, Luyanda. I like you. I see the way you look at her—like you're afraid to even breathe too loud in case it breaks the moment. But love that lasts? It doesn't survive on soft looks and sweet gifts. It survives on understanding. On staying—even when the past crawls back with sharp claws."

I swallowed hard. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying," she said gently, "if you love her—really love her—you need to make space for her shadows. Because if you don't, they'll creep between you two without warning. And Kat? He might be a shadow she still hasn't turned her back on completely."

I exhaled, feeling the weight settle in my chest.

"She doesn't need fixing, Luyanda. She needs someone who stays. Even when she flinches. Even when she doubts. Especially when she forgets she's lovable."

I nodded slowly.

"Because," Nthabi continued, voice lowering, "if she still loves him—even a little—you'll feel it. And if you're not steady enough, she might just slip right through your fingers."

Silence stretched between us, heavy with meaning.

And in that moment, I realized...

This wasn't about competing with a ghost.

It was about proving I could love her better than the silence ever did.

Nthabiseng

I crossed my fingers beneath the café table as Luyanda left, his shoulders heavier than when he came.

I watched him disappear into the blur of campus life and whispered softly, "Please hold on, Luyanda. Don't let go of her just yet."

I meant it.
God, I meant it.

Because if anyone deserved Siphosethu's heart, it was him.
Soft-spoken. Loyal. Patient like rain in a drought.
The kind of man who saw her scars and called them constellations.

But still...
Still.

Later that afternoon, scrolling through Instagram stories, I stumbled on a snapshot: Katlego in Botswana, standing beside a huge Christmas tree, sunglasses tucked into the front of his shirt, dimples visible even through a filter.

And dammit if I didn't feel a pang.

Tall. Tswana-bred charm. The effortless confidence. The way he used to say Sethu's name like it was something rare.
Siphosethu.
Like a verse he'd memorized.

I laughed bitterly and tossed my phone aside.
"Yhu," I muttered, "you're not even mine to imagine."

But still... again.

There was something poetic about them. Kat and Sethu.
The girl who built walls and the boy who somehow climbed over them.
They were chaos and slow burns. Fireworks in winter.
They could've been one of those Tumblr couples everyone reposts with 'goals' typed in lowercase letters and 80s filters slapped over stolen kisses.

I could see it.

Her wearing his oversized soccer jersey, curled up on the couch, correcting his Tswana with a smirk.
Him dropping her off at med school, engine still running, saying, "O rata gore ke romele lunch ka botshelo jotlhe?"
And her laughing like her past never left any bruises.

Ugh. They'd be too cute.

But they weren't real anymore.
That ship had sailed, crashed, and was now floating somewhere in Sethu's emotional Bermuda Triangle.

So, I tucked the thought away—deep in the back drawer of my mind where 'what-ifs' go to die.

Because truth is...
Sethu is with Luyanda now.
And she deserves to be loved gently.

Luyanda Dhlamini

I don't know what I expected when I met up with Nthabiseng.
Maybe some sisterly support. Maybe a warning.

What I got?

Was a fire lit under my heart.

She didn't sugarcoat anything.
She told me the truth—Siphosethu's past wasn't just a chapter.
It was a whole damn book.

And Kat... he wasn't just an old flame.
He was a forest fire. One that left ashes in places I hadn't even realized she was still healing.

But Nthabi looked me straight in the eye and said, "If you love her—if you really love her—you hold her tight. Because she's been left before. And if you give her a reason to think you will too? She'll vanish into her own shadows."

And that stayed with me.

So now, standing outside her res, my hands slightly shaking, I know I can't wait anymore.
I need to tell her. All of it.

When she opens the door, her eyes widen—surprised. She's in her hoodie and socks, hair in a scarf, and a half-finished assignment open behind her.

"Luyanda?" she asks, a bit confused.

I don't wait. I step in, gently but firmly, and I take her hands.

"I need to say this," I begin, heart pounding, "and I need you to hear it—not with your ears. With your heart."

She blinks, and I can see that guarded wall she's used to protect herself for years.
But I keep going.

"I don't care what he was to you. I don't care how deep his imprint runs. What I care about is you. Siphosethu Zulu. The girl who cries during documentaries. Who listens more than she talks. Who acts tough but melts when someone is kind to her."

Her lips part, but I'm not done.

"I see you. I see the you behind the silence. Behind the fear. Behind the hesitation. And I want you to know... I'm not here for a season or a moment."

I take a breath, step closer, my forehead resting gently on hers.

"I love you, Sethu. Not some edited version of you. I love the scars. The pauses. The uncertainty. I love you when you're loud. I love you when you're quiet. I love you when you feel like you're not enough, even though you are—God, you are."

Her eyes glisten. Her hands tighten around mine.

"I don't expect perfection. I'm not asking you to forget your past. I'm asking you to let me be part of your present—and your future."

A single tear slides down her cheek. I brush it away with my thumb.

"You once told me you weren't sure if you were capable of being loved again. Let me prove you wrong."

The silence between us stretches. But it's not empty—it's full. Full of everything we haven't said and everything we've been scared to feel.

She opens her mouth, voice trembling, "Luyanda..."

But I press my finger gently to her lips.

"No need to say it now. Just let me love you. Let me stay."

And she does. She nods. Slowly. Softly. But surely.

And that's enough.

In this quiet room, surrounded by textbooks and unresolved feelings, I know—
This is where we begin again.
This time, for real.

Siphosethu Zulu

I didn't see it coming.
Not the confession.
Not the way his voice shook as he poured his heart out.
Not the way my own walls crumbled, slowly, quietly—like a house built from paper.

And definitely not the way he kissed me.

It wasn't rushed.
It wasn't greedy.
It was patient. Warm. Full of silent promises.

Luyanda kissed me like he had all the time in the world.
Like he wasn't afraid of my past—like he wasn't competing with Kat, but rewriting a new chapter all on his own.
And I let him.

I melted.

Because for once, someone didn't just want to take from me.
He wanted to give—peace, safety, softness, love.

Now we're cuddled up in my bed. My hoodie's still on, his arm is around my waist, and some random romcom is playing on Netflix—but neither of us is really paying attention.

My head rests on his chest. I can hear the steady rhythm of his heart.
It's the safest sound in the world.

"I meant every word, you know," he murmurs into my hair.

"I know," I whisper back, fingers lightly tracing the seam of his T-shirt.

He chuckles, low and warm. "You didn't say it back."

I lift my head and meet his eyes—those honest, soft, brown eyes that look at me like I'm made of more than just skin and bone.

"I didn't have to," I say, lips curving into a smile. "I kissed you, didn't I?"

He grins. "True. But hearing it would be nice too."

So I shift, sit up just a little, and press my forehead against his.

"Luyanda..." My voice shakes a bit, not from fear, but from truth. "I love you. I love how you see me. How you choose me—even when I'm still learning how to choose myself."

His smile fades into something deeper. Something reverent.

"I'll keep choosing you," he whispers, "even when you can't find the words. Even when you forget your strength."

And just like that, he pulls me in again—closer, deeper, as if our hearts are syncing to the same rhythm.

We kiss again.

It's not the kind of kiss that sets the world on fire.
It's the kind that heals.

That says, "You're home now."

When we break apart, I lay my head on his chest again, and he pulls the blanket over us. The movie's still running, but I barely notice.

Because in this moment... it's not about the screen.

It's about the boy whose heartbeat says I'm safe.

And suddenly, I know—with terrifying clarity—that this man?

He's my future.

Not just someone to pass the time with.
But someone I'd marry.
Someone I'd wake up next to when I'm 40 and tired but still grateful.
Someone who'd hold my hand through everything.

So I whisper, almost to myself, "Ngiyabonga, Luyanda. Ngiyabonga for loving me gently."

He hears it. Smiles against my hair. "Always, baby girl. Always."

And in the quiet, with only our breathing and the soft flicker of the screen, I feel it settle deep in my bones:

This is love.
The real kind.
The kind I won't let go of.