Chane, a wiry 19-year-old with close-cropped hair and hopeful eyes, moved nervously across the court, clutching a basketball. His sneakers squeaked against the floor as he watched the third-years shoot hoops effortlessly. Among them was Zisanda, short and quick, her laughter rising above the din. She flashed a grin at Chane, tossing him the ball with a practiced flick. "Hey, rookie! Bet you can’t make this shot from the three-point line," "Watch me," Chane replied, heart thumping, as the ball arced perfectly through the hoop.

Chane and Zisanda sat side by side, sharing fries and stories. She spoke of her Zulu roots and her mother’s hard-won faith, laughter masking the ache of memories. Chane hesitated, tracing the rim of his mug, wrestling with words about home in Zimbabwe, church on Sundays, and the truth of who he was. Their knees brushed under the table, a silent promise of understanding. "Sometimes I feel like I’m split in two—who I am, and who they want me to be," "You’re enough, just like this," Zisanda replied, her voice soft but certain.

Chane sat cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through forums about HRT, the blue glow of his laptop casting shadows over his face. Zisanda paced the room, arms folded, her thoughts tangled and loud. Their conversations grew heavy with what-ifs and maybes, until silence settled like dust. "I don’t know who I am yet, Chane. I want to be with you, but I need to figure myself out first," "I get it, Zee. I’m still figuring out my own path, too,"

Chane and Zisanda walked side by side, words catching in their throats. The world felt too big, their hands too empty. They hugged tightly, holding on for a moment longer than goodbye should allow, before drifting apart into the crowd. "Take care of yourself, Zee," "You too, Chane. Don’t forget who you are,"

Chane knelt on the rug, stroking the soft ears of his service dog, a gentle companion in the hush of solitude. He filled his days with therapy, long walks, and letters unsent to Zisanda. Dating others brought only fleeting warmth, the echo of her laughter haunting every smile. In the quiet, Chane began to find pieces of himself, learning to be whole alone.

Chane sat on a bench, his dog at his feet, watching families and couples drift by. He breathed deeply, the weight of old expectations lighter now. Zisanda had moved on to a new city, a new life, but Chane carried her in the quiet joy he felt at simply being. He was still madly in love, but now, most of all, he was in love with himself. "Thank you for loving me, Zee. Wherever you are," he murmured, scratching his dog behind the ears as the last light faded, hope blooming quietly inside him.