Insight of a Kenyan Girl

The hospital felt quieter at night. Not silent — there were always machines humming, nurses moving, the occasional shuffle of slippers on tile — but it was a different kind of quiet. A stillness that pressed against the windows and crept into the mind.

I was on my third night since waking up in the ICU. No more fever, but my body still ached, and I could feel the weight of weakness in my bones. Everything was slow now. Movements. Thoughts. Even my emotions felt… muted. Like they were walking through fog, trying to find their way back to me.

I had read his reply at least ten times.
“I get it. Hope you’re okay now. Just glad you reached out. Let me know when you’re back on your feet — we still have unfinished food business, Minnie.”

He didn’t ask for details. Didn’t push. Just left space — a little opening, like a crack in a closed door. And I stood on the other side, unsure if I should knock or walk away.

I typed and deleted so many messages that night. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure of how much to reveal. I wasn’t ready to tell him about the surgery. About the real reason behind it. About the pain that came before, and the one that still lingered even after the stitches had healed.

But I also didn’t want to lose whatever this was. Whatever we were becoming.

So I wrote something small. Measured. Safe.
“Thanks. I’m still in the hospital but feeling better. Not sure when I’ll be up and about again, but… the food festival will have to wait.”

He replied within a few minutes.
“Good to hear. And no rush — I’m good at waiting.”

Something in me exhaled.

We kept talking after that. Just small things. Jokes about hospital food. A meme he sent that made me smile, even though it hurt my stitches to laugh. He didn’t pry. Didn’t ask who I really was or why I’d ended up in a hospital bed. He just stayed present — a steady hum in the background of my recovery.

And I liked it that way. For now.

There was something comforting in the distance between us. Two strangers behind masks, offering each other a piece of warmth without the need to unwrap everything too quickly.

I didn’t know his real name.

He didn’t know mine.

But somehow, that didn’t matter — not yet.