Insight of a Kenyan Girl

I didn’t tell anyone he was coming.

Not because I was hiding him—but because I didn’t know how to explain him. How do you talk about a man whose real name you don’t even know? A man who feels like a secret too fragile to share?

You don’t.

Especially when he feels like someone who exists outside the rules of ordinary life. Someone who speaks in half-smiles and silences that say more than words ever could.

And now he was arriving.

In my city. My space. My life.

When I got to the airport, I expected… something. Anxiety, nerves, maybe a little embarrassment. But when I saw him, all of that dropped away. He was just there—leaning against a column, his dark jacket zipped halfway, hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just crossed a continent to be here.

He wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t trying to be noticed. But still, he stood out.

I paused when our eyes met.

He didn’t smile at first. Just watched me with that stillness of his, like he could see right through me.

And then—softly—he said, “Minnie.”

“Patty,” I answered.

We didn’t hug. Didn’t do the awkward shuffle people usually do at airport reunions. We just looked at each other like we’d been talking this whole time without ever saying a word.

The last time I saw him was also at an airport—except back then, he didn’t kiss my forehead or say something romantic like don’t say goodbye, say see you later. He didn’t do sentimental goodbyes. Just that calm, unreadable face and a simple, “You don’t owe me anything. But if you want to see me again… you’ll know how.”

And now here he was. No grand gestures. No warning.

“You didn’t have to come,” I said quietly.

“I know,” he replied. “But I wanted to.”

We walked side by side to the exit, and I noticed again how he made space without demanding it. People stepped aside for him without even realizing it.

His driver was waiting outside with a sleek, quiet car—not luxury obvious, just… expensive in that subtle, intimidating way. But I didn’t think too hard about it. Maybe he just had good taste.

He opened the door for me, and I hesitated.

“This feels strange,” I admitted.

“It’s okay,” he said. “So do I.”

He sat beside me, close but not too close. We didn’t say much in the car. I kept glancing at him, and every time I thought I might ask who are you, really?, I stopped myself.

Because I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.

When we got to my apartment, he looked around before stepping in. Not suspiciously—just… aware. Like someone who always scanned his environment, always noticed the exits.

“This where you disappear when life gets too loud?” he asked, stepping inside.

I nodded, watching as he walked around slowly, eyes taking in the little corners of my world.

“I like it,” he said. “It’s honest.”

I laughed softly. “Honest doesn’t mean safe.”

He looked at me then, and for a second, something shifted in his expression. Something almost… vulnerable.

“I never promised safe, Minnie,” he said. “But I’m here.”

And that mattered more than I expected.

We sat across from each other on the couch, my hands around a warm mug of tea, his still untouched on the table.

“Why now?” I asked.

“I just wanted to see you again. In your world. Not just through a screen.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“I don’t think anything about you is easy,” he said with a quiet smile. “But I didn’t come here for easy.”

There was something in his tone that made me pause.

He wasn’t like Callum. There were no mind games, no shifting blame, no quiet cruelty hidden behind sweet words. Patty didn’t flinch at honesty. He didn’t need to win — he just needed to be present.

And that scared me.

I whispered, “I still don’t know anything about you.”

He leaned back, his gaze calm. “Maybe that’s for the best.”

His answer wasn’t cold. It was careful. Measured.

Like he was protecting me from something I wasn’t ready to know.

And maybe he was right.

Because even though I didn’t know his real name, or what he did, or how he always seemed to speak like someone used to control—I trusted him more than I probably should have.

“I don’t know what this is,” I admitted.

“Then don’t name it,” he said. “Just let it be.”

We fell into silence. But it wasn’t empty. It was full of questions we were both too afraid to ask—and feelings that were growing, even when they didn’t make sense.

The next morning, I found a note on the counter in his impossibly neat handwriting:

Had to step out. Didn’t want to wake you. I’ll be back soon. Don’t overthink this. Just let yourself feel it. — P.

I smiled to myself.

No, I didn’t know who he really was.

But somehow, I knew I wasn’t ready to let him go.