Page 32 of In Another Time

Sherelle stepped inside, her expression a mix of concern and determination. “Hey,” she said, flashing a sympathetic smile.

“What’s up?” I asked, closing the door and leaning against the door frame.

She crossed her arms and gave me a pointed look. “What’s up is that you look like hell, and I’m worried about you.”

“I’m good,” I said automatically.

“No, you’re not,” she shot back. “Don’t give me that ‘I’m good’ bullshit. I can tell you’re barely sleeping, and I stopped by the restaurant. Anya is doing her best.”

I sighed, running a hand over my face. “What do you want me to say, Relle? That I’m fucked up?”

Her expression softened, and her shoulders rose and fell. “Did you know Lennox’s dad passed away?”

The air seemed to leave the room. I looked up sharply. “What?”

“It happened a couple of days ago,” she said gently. “I thought you should know.”

“Damn. How is she?” I asked, my voice quieter now.

“She’s managing,” Sherelle said. “You know how she is—strong on the outside, but this is tearing her up. Losing a parent isn’t easy.” I nodded, my chest tightening. “You should reach out,” Sherelle added.

I shook my head. “She doesn’t want to hear from me.”

“You don’t know that,” Sherelle said. “Maybe she does. Just think about it, O. Life’s too short to leave things unsaid.”

After she left, I sat in silence for a long time in the living room. I sat there for what felt like an eternity, staring at the black screen of my phone. I rubbed my temples, the ache in my chest impossible to ignore.

I picked up my phone and opened Instagram, pulling up Lennox’s profile. Before I could stop myself, I opened the message box and started typing.

Hey, how are you?

I stared at the words for a moment, debating whether to hit send. It was simple enough, but I knew the weight behind it. It wasn’t just a casual check-in. It was everything I hadn’t said, everything I’d avoided for over a year.

I exhaled and pressed send before I could change my mind. Almost immediately, my phone buzzed. A notification appeared at the top of the screen.

TheeLennoxAnderson: Hey, how are you?

I froze, staring at the words, my mind racing. She had sent the exact same message. At the exact same time.

It felt like the universe had paused for a moment, aligning in a way I didn’t understand. My heart pounded in my chest as I reread her message, wondering if she was thinking the same shit I was.

LENNOX

Afew days ago, my world shattered. I could still hear the faint sound of my heels clicking against the airport floor, echoing like the ticking of a bomb. Every minute felt like a lifetime as I rushed through the terminal, phone clutched tightly in my hand, silently willing time to move faster.

The flight was a blur, my mind spiraling with panic and prayers. By the time I landed and raced into the hospital, the sterile smell of disinfectant hit me like a wall. I was met with my sister’s tear-streaked face in the waiting room.

“He’s gone,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“No,” I whispered back, shaking my head as if that one word could change everything. “No, no, no?—”

But it didn’t. The weight of reality slammed into me as I walked into the room. My mother sat by the bed, clutching his lifeless hand, her cries muffled but piercing. My brother stood bythe window, his fists clenched, his chest heaving with silent sobs. My sister sat in a chair, her arms wrapped protectively around her pregnant belly, tears streaming down her face.

And there he was. My father. The strongest man I’d ever known, now so still. I crumbled. Sobs wracked my body as I collapsed into my mother’s arms. “Daddy, no. Please, no.”

The rest of that night was a haze of emotions, waves of grief that left no space for anything else. We clung to each other in that cold, sterile room, our pain a shared, unspoken bond.

Now, days later, I sat curled up on the couch in my parents’ living room, staring blankly at the wall. The house felt too quiet, even with family bustling around trying to prepare for the funeral. It was as if the walls themselves mourned his absence.

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