The city had a rhythm I was starting to feel in my bones a pulse I could almost move with. But it wasn't the towers or neon that kept me up at night. It was Thabo.
We'd been seeing each other for days. At first, it was just coffee, awkward small talk, a walk-through crowds. His hand would brush mine and I'd pretend not to notice. I told myself I couldn't afford this, that survival came first. But the truth crept in every laugh, every glance, I sank deeper.
That night, he found me on the bench outside the café my knees pulled tight, watching the city's lights spill out across the street. I didn't want him to see me like that. Not tired, not cracked open.
"You're quiet," he said, taking the spot next to me.
"I'm fine." I couldn't look at him.
He didn't buy it. He turned my face to his, gentle but firm. "You're not. You're carrying something."
The words spilled out. Not the big things—nothing about my mother, nothing about being lost. Just the small truths: bone-tired, lonely, worn thin. Thabo listened, silent. He took my shaking hand in his, held it until the shaking stopped.
Just like that, his fingers were laced with mine. I felt the jolt—desire, fear, hope, all tangled. I tried to pull away, but he held on, easy and sure as breathing.
Over the next days, we fell into a rhythm. Thabo waited for me after work. We walked side by side through streets thick with noise and exhaust. He teased me for being stubborn, tried to get me to eat street food I was too proud or too scared to try. Sometimes he'd ask questions and I'd dodge them. He let me. I noticed how he dodged some of mine too. Whatever he carried, he kept close.
One night by the river, city lights flickering on the water, his arm brushed mine and I didn't move away. I leaned in, barely. I wanted to see what would happen if I stopped running.
"You're thinking too much," he said, his voice close to my ear.
I shook my head, tried to laugh it off, but he saw right through it. He pressed his lips to my temple. It felt like a warning and a promise, both at once.
The next day, I realized what I wanted—him, close. That night, the walls finally broke. Laughter dissolved into silence, then into touch. I ended up in his apartment, in his bed, learning the dangerous warmth of being wanted when I'd gotten used to being alone.
When I left, the city felt different. Heavy, urgent. I'd crossed a line and there was no going back. I felt alive in a way survival alone never gave me.
But beneath it, dread took root. Wanting someone meant risk. I'd spent years keeping myself together, and Johannesburg demanded everything. What if I lost myself in him, in this city, and there was nothing left?
I walked home through the thrum of nightlife, neon buzzing under my skin. I whispered to the dark, "Don't lose yourself. Not here. Not now."
The city didn't answer, but I felt it pressing close, daring me to keep going, to want more than just survival.
For the first time in months, I was terrified. And alive.