Insight of a Kenyan Girl

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across the room. Outside, the city was waking up—cars humming to life, distant chatter drifting in through the cracked window. But inside, I felt a quiet unease stirring, like a shadow just out of sight.

Patty was still asleep on the couch, his breathing slow and even. I watched him from the doorway, the lines of his face softened in rest, but the tension I’d sensed since his arrival hadn’t left me. It hovered beneath the surface, like a secret waiting to be uncovered.

It wasn’t just that he knew things I never told him—like how my favorite pastries were hidden in that paper bag last night. That should have made me feel cared for, but instead, it planted a seed of doubt.

How could he know what I wanted if I never said a word?

And then there were the other moments. The way his eyes lingered on me, not in the way of a casual glance, but like he was trying to read the parts I kept locked away. The way he seemed to understand the silence between my words, the hesitation I barely managed to hide.

I remembered the strange phone calls his voice low, careful, almost clipped. Words like “strategy” and “movement” floated through the half-closed door. The language felt foreign, detached from my simple life of late-night walks and coffee shops.

I told myself it was nothing. Maybe he worked in finance, or politics, or something I wasn’t meant to understand.

But deep down, I knew it was more.

That night, when he brushed a stray curl from my face, there was a look in his eyes I couldn’t place something older, sharper. Like a man who carried a weight invisible to the world.

And then, of course, there was the unspoken knowledge of Callum. I had never mentioned him, never breathed his name around Patty. Yet the moment I said it aloud, his steady gaze told me he already knew.

How? When? And why had he kept that knowledge to himself?

Questions I wasn’t ready to ask yet.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, wrapping my arms around my knees. My mind raced, tracing patterns where there might be none. Was he watching me more closely than I noticed? Was this all just part of some game I hadn’t signed up for?

And still, despite the unease, there was a pull I couldn’t resist.

Patty was different. Not like Callum, with his easy words and empty promises. Patty was danger wrapped in calm. Power wrapped in silence.

I was caught somewhere between wanting to run and wanting to stay.

Later that day, as I moved through my routine making tea, scrolling through messages I caught myself glancing at my phone, waiting. Waiting for a message from him. A word, a sign that the man behind the name Patty was still there, still real.

And when my phone buzzed, my heart jumped.

It was him.

Simple words.

“Thinking about you.”

I smiled softly, the flutter in my chest both thrilling and terrifying.

What was this between us? A connection? A trap? Or maybe something neither of us was ready to name?

As the evening settled in, I found myself sitting by the window, watching the city lights blink awake. I wondered how much of his world I would ever see—and how much I’d lose if I ever got too close.

But one thing was clear: the man behind the name Patty was already changing my story.

Whether I wanted him to or not.