​The air in Buea didn't just carry the scent of rain; it carried the heavy, ancient weight of the mountain. On evenings like this, when the clouds sat so low they seemed to swallow the University buildings, the world felt like it was closing in. I liked it that way. The fog was a curtain, and behind it, I could be invisible.

​I stepped out of the small "provision store" where I spent my afternoons counting change and stacking tins of Milo. The shift had been long, and the humid air made my skin feel sticky. Most girls my age—nineteen, heading toward twenty—would be meeting friends at a snack bar or heading to a study group. But I had different plans. My plans involved a quiet room, a locked door, and the comfort of nobody knowing I existed.

​I pulled my hoodie over my head, the fabric damp and smelling slightly of the charcoal smoke that always hung over the streets. I began the walk toward the Mile 17 bus station. In Buea, the earth is a deep, rich red, and when the rain falls, it turns into a thick, treacherous mud that clings to everything. It was a metaphor for my life: the more I tried to move forward, the more the past tried to pull me down.

​Every step was a battle. I kept my head down, my eyes fixed on the heels of the person walking in front of me. I avoided eye contact the way a soldier avoids a landmine. If you don't look at people, they don't look at you. If they don't look at you, they don't ask questions. And if they don't ask questions, you don't have to lie about why you wake up screaming in the middle of the night.

​The rain began to intensify as I reached the main road. It wasn't just a drizzle anymore; it was a tropical downpour, the kind that made the zinc roofs of the roadside shops roar like a thousand drums. I ducked into the bus shelter, a concrete structure that had seen better days. It was crowded. People were huddled together, shoulders touching, sharing the warmth of their bodies.

​I hated it. I moved to the very edge of the shelter, letting the stray drops of rain hit my arm rather than be touched by a stranger. I leaned my head against the rough, cold concrete and closed my eyes. Just ten minutes, I told myself. Ten minutes and the bus will be here. Then forty minutes to the house. Then silence.

​"The mountain is angry tonight, eh?"

​The voice hit me like a splash of warm water. It was close—too close. I didn't open my eyes. I didn't want to acknowledge the person standing next to me. I felt the familiar tightening in my chest, the "fight or flight" reflex that had become my permanent shadow.

​"The rain in Buea is never just rain," the voice continued. It was a boy’s voice. It sounded steady, like the deep hum of a car engine. "It's a baptism. Or a punishment, depending on if you have an umbrella."

​I opened my eyes and looked sideways. He was standing just a few inches away. He was tall, wearing a simple white shirt that was miraculously still clean despite the mud everywhere. His hair was short, and his skin was the color of dark chocolate. He wasn't looking at me with the hungry eyes I usually saw in men. He was looking at the rain with a peaceful expression.

​"I'm fine," I said, my voice sounding like gravel. It was the only defense I had.

​He finally turned to look at me, and I felt a jolt of something I hadn't felt in years. It wasn't attraction—it was recognition. He looked like someone who knew what it was like to be caught in a storm.

​"You're shaking, sister," he said, his smile widening just a little. "And your hoodie is soaked. If you sit on that bus for forty minutes like that, you'll be sick before you reach home."

​He reached into his backpack, rummaging through books. My heart started to beat faster. What is he doing? Why is he talking to me? I looked around for an escape, but the rain was a wall of water. I was trapped.

​"Here," he said, pulling out a thick, grey sweatshirt. "It's dry. I was going to use it as a pillow on the bus, but you need it more."

​I stared at the fabric. It looked soft. It looked warm. It looked like a trap. "I don't take things from strangers," I snapped. "I don't need your charity."

​The boy—Conrad, though I didn't know it yet—didn't look offended. He just shrugged. "It's not charity. It's just a shirt. My mother always says, 'If you have two shirts and your neighbor is shivering, you only really have one shirt.'"

​"I'm not your neighbor," I whispered.

​"We're both standing under the same leaking roof in Mile 17," he replied. "That makes us neighbors for at least the next ten minutes."

​He held it out again. I wanted it so badly. My bones felt like ice, and the dampness of my clothes was making my skin ache. But the trauma of the past was louder than the cold. I remembered another boy, years ago, who had offered me a gift. That gift had come with a price that cost me my family’s trust.

​"Get away from me," I said, my voice rising. People in the shelter started to turn their heads.

​Conrad stepped back, his hands raised in a peaceful gesture. "Okay, okay. No shirt. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

​He reached back into his bag and pulled out a sturdy, yellow umbrella. "At least take this. I'm only going to the taxi park, which is right there. I can run. You have a long way to go. I'm Conrad, by the way."

​"I don't care," I said, turning my back to him. I was shaking so hard now that I had to tuck my hands into my armpits.

​I decided I couldn't wait for the bus anymore. I would rather walk in the mud than stay under this roof with him. I swung my backpack over my shoulder with a violent jerk, wanting to disappear.

​But as I moved, the zipper of my side pocket yielded. My transit card—the only thing I had to get me home—flew out of my pocket. It skipped across the wet ground and headed straight for the rushing brown water of the gutter.

​"No!" the word escaped me.

​Before I could move, Conrad was a blur. He didn't care about his white shirt or his dry jeans. He dropped to his knees, his hand plunging into the dirty, rushing water. He grunted as his fingers scraped the stones, but he stood up a second later, holding the dripping plastic card.

​He was a mess. His right side was soaked in red mud. He wiped the card on his sleeve and held it out to me.

​"You'd have a very long walk home without this," he said softly. "Don't be so quick to run away that you lose what's important, Moon."

​I froze. The world seemed to stop. "How... how do you know my name?"

​He pointed at the small ID tag on my bag. "It's written right there. I'm an engineer, remember? We notice details."

​I reached out to take the card. My fingers brushed against his palm. He was burning hot, like he had a fever, or maybe that was just the contrast to my icy skin. For a split second, I didn't feel like a ghost. I felt... seen.

​"Thank you," I whispered. It was the first honest thing I had said in months.

​"You're welcome, Moon," he said. He didn't try to push the jacket on me again. He just handed me the yellow umbrella. "Take it. Please. If you don't, I'll feel like I ruined my shirt for nothing."

​I took the umbrella. The handle was warm from his grip.

​The bus pulled up a moment later, its headlights cutting through the mist. I scrambled onto the bus, the mud from his hand still visible on my card. I sat at the very back, pressing my face against the window.

​As the bus pulled away, I saw him. Conrad was standing in the pouring rain, his ruined white shirt clinging to his skin, a small smile on his face.

​I reached up and touched my face. My cheeks were wet. I looked at the yellow umbrella in my lap. It was so bright, so loud, so visible. It was the opposite of everything I wanted to be.

​I had spent three years building a wall of ice around my heart, believing that if I stayed cold, no one could ever burn me again. But as the bus climbed the hills of Buea, I realized that the ice was starting to melt. And that terrified me more than the storm ever could.

​

​The morning air in Buea was not bright. It was a dull, milky white because of the heavy mist from the mountain. I woke up to the sound of a neighbor's radio and the smell of woodsmoke. For a second, I forgot about the night before. I reached for my phone, but then I saw it.

​Leaning against my old wooden desk was the yellow umbrella.

​It was too bright for my small, grey room. It was like a loud shout in a quiet place. Every time I looked at it, I saw Conrad's face. I remembered how he smiled even though his white shirt was ruined by the mud. I looked at my transit card on the table. It still had a small mark of red mud on it-a mark from when he saved it for me.

​To most people, an umbrella is just an object. To me, it felt like a heavy weight. I did not like owing people favors. In my life, a favor was usually a trap. I had spent three years staying away from everyone to keep myself safe.

​"Moon! You are going to be late!" my aunt shouted from the kitchen.

​"I'm coming, Ma!" I replied.

​I dressed quickly in a black hoodie and jeans. I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to be a ghost again. But I could not leave the umbrella behind. I grabbed it and walked out into the misty streets.

​The walk to the provision store was long. The red mud was drying under the sun. I kept the yellow umbrella hidden at my side. I felt like I was carrying a secret.

​At the store, I spent the morning stacking tins of milk and weighing rice. I was in a daze. Every time the bell above the door rang, I looked up quickly. My heart would beat fast for a second. I told myself I was just angry. I told myself I just wanted to give the umbrella back.

​He won't come, I thought. He is a University student. He is busy.

​But at noon, the sun came out. I was cleaning the counter when I saw a group of students across the street. They were laughing and talking about their classes. In the middle of them, I saw a green polo shirt.

​It was him.

​Conrad looked different in the daylight. His skin was the color of dark coffee, and he looked very calm. He looked like he belonged to the world. I felt like I was just watching from behind a window.

​I grabbed the umbrella and stepped outside. The hot, humid air hit my face.

​"Conrad!" I called out.

​The group stopped. Conrad turned around. When he saw me holding the bright yellow umbrella, his face lit up. He smiled a real smile-the kind that makes you feel like everything is okay. He said something to his friends and ran over to me.

​"Moon!" he said, stopping in front of me. "I thought maybe you moved away to keep my umbrella forever."

​"I don't keep things that aren't mine," I said. I was trying to sound cold. I pushed the umbrella toward him. "Here. Take it. Your shirt was ruined because of me, so now we are even."

​Conrad did not take it. He leaned against the door of the shop. "Even? Moon, a shirt is just a shirt. I would jump in the mud again to help you."

​"I don't do favors," I whispered. I felt my hands shaking. "I don't want to owe you anything."

​Conrad became quiet. The look in his eyes changed. He stepped a little closer. He smelled like fresh soap and mint.

​"Is that what this is? A debt?" he asked softly. "In Buea, when it rains, we share. It is not a business deal, Moon. It is just being kind. You don't owe me anything."

​I looked down at my shoes. "You don't understand. For me, kindness is a trap."

​Conrad did not move away. "Then let me prove you wrong. No traps. Just tea."

​I looked up, surprised. "What?"

​"The café around the corner has great ginger tea," he said with a small smile. "Come with me when you finish work. No umbrellas, no favors. Just two people talking."

​I looked at the umbrella, then at him. The "weight" of the favor felt different now. It was not a heavy chain anymore. It felt like a door was slowly opening.

​"I work until five," I said quietly.

​"I have a big textbook to read," Conrad replied. He sat down on the wooden bench outside the shop. "I can wait."

​He opened his book and started reading. He stayed right there where I could see him. As I walked back inside, I felt a strange spark of curiosity. For the first time in a long time, I didn't want to run away.

​

​It was 5 PM, and the mist had fallen over Buea. I finished my work at the store, sweeping the floor and putting the items back in their places.

​Conrad was still there. He was sitting on the bench, pretending to read his book, but he couldn't help watching me. I thought it was hilarious to see a guy like him watch me struggle with the heavy bags of rice and spices. For me, it was a normal struggle, but for him, it seemed like he wanted to jump in and help every second.

​I saw his shadow moving behind me. Then his voice came, soft and steady.

​"Why don't you just ask for my help?" he said. His voice was so gentle that it made me stop.

​I didn't even think before I replied roughly. "Just because I don't need it."

​A part of me—a part I hated—was actually hoping he would get upset and sit back down, or even just leave. But he didn't. Instead, he smiled and came toward me. He took the other end of the heavy bag and helped me carry it to the back of the store.

​"You are such a pig-headed girl," he said in a playful, joking way.

​With his help, I finished closing the store much earlier than I expected. It felt strange. It felt bad and awkward, but also... different. This was the second time this guy had forced me to let my guard down. For the first time in a long time, the silence didn't feel lonely. It felt like a start

​I stood there for a moment, looking at the closed door of the shop. Conrad was standing next to me, his hands in his pockets. He didn't push me to speak. He just waited. The "weight of the favor" from earlier was still there, but now it felt like something else. It felt like a question I wasn't ready to answer.

​"Are you going to stare at the lock all night, or are we going?" he asked. His voice was back to that playful, "smooth" tone that usually made me want to roll my eyes.

​"I told you, I have a long walk home," I said, trying to find my "cold" voice again. But it was hard to stay cold when my heart was still racing from the way he helped me with the bags.

​Conrad tilted his head to the side. "It’s 5 PM, Moon. The mist is thick. I’m not letting you walk back to Mile 17 alone. Besides, you still have my umbrella."

​I looked at the yellow umbrella in my hand. I had forgotten I was still holding it. "I was going to give it back."

​"Keep it for now," he said, walking toward the street. "You can give it back after the tea. That way, I have an excuse to make sure you actually show up."

​I bit my lip. He was so confident, so sure of himself. It was a complete contrast to my world of shadows and "safe distances." I followed him, but I made sure to stay two steps behind. I wasn't ready to walk with him yet. I was only walking near him.

​As we walked, the sounds of Buea started to fade into the mist. The bike-taxis were just faint lights in the distance. The silence between us started to change again. It wasn't the "bad" kind of awkward anymore. It was the kind of silence that happens right before something big changes.

​"You're doing it again," Conrad said, looking back at me over his shoulder.

​"Doing what?"

​"Thinking too much," he said, flashing that crinkled-eye smile. "Stop overthinking it, Moon. It’s just ginger tea. I’m not asking for your life story... yet."

​