Safe distance

​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.

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