Inherited Scars.

Ntalami lay sprawled on her bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it held the answers she desperately sought. The pale paint above her blurred in and out of focus, her lashes sticky with dried tears. Her eyes burned from hours of crying, the kind of crying that emptied her chest but never her pain. This was the third time she had broken down that week.

“I can’t let him go,” she whispered into the silence, her voice raw, almost childlike. “Why is it so hard for me to let him go?”

Her throat ached from sobbing, her head heavy with exhaustion. The room felt like a cage, holding her memories captive with her. She pulled her knees close, resting her chin on her palms, as though bracing herself against an invisible weight pressing her down.

She knew what her grandmother would have told her: keep your hands busy when the heart is restless. With trembling fingers, she reached for the fluffy storage basket near her nightstand and pulled out skeins of yarn; yellow and hot pink, bright colors to summon light into her dim mood.

“A flower bag,” she murmured, as though the naming itself could will joy into her bones.

Crochet had always been her refuge. Her grandmother had taught her the craft when she was a child, sitting with her under the mango tree in the village, the air filled with the chirps of birds and the smell of ripe fruit. Now, years later, the rhythm of the hook and thread was the only thing that ever quieted her storming thoughts.Ntalami moved to the balcony for fresh air. Passing her bedroom mirror, she paused. Her reflection stared back, eyes puffy, lips swollen from crying, hair in a messy bun. She tried to smile, a broken curve of her lips, as if convincing herself she could still glow through the chaos. Then, with a long sigh, she settled on the balcony chair and began crocheting, the yarn slipping through her fingers like threads of healing.

Across town, Duke groaned on his king-sized bed, rolling from side to side like a wounded animal. His head throbbed violently, each heartbeat pounding against his temples. The bitter aftertaste of alcohol still clung to his tongue. He dragged a palm down his face, cursing under his breath.

Duke was tall, dark, and built like a man sculpted for admiration. Abs, six-pack, the kind of body that made men nod in envy and women linger too long in stares. But he worked out not for health or discipline; he worked out for the hierarchy, the bragging rights, the illusion of power. His dreadlocks, four years grown, crowned him with a rugged charisma. To outsiders, he was a man who had it all together.

But beneath the surface, Duke carried wounds he never spoke of. His mother’s absence haunted him still how she had walked out when he was young, leaving him and his little sister in the care of their struggling father. She had chosen another man, a richer man. That betrayal was a scar Duke rarely touched, except when he felt safe enough to unravel and only Ntalami had ever seen that side of him.

A loud knock rattled his door. He groaned louder this time, dragging himself upright. His stomach twisted, protesting every movement. He shuffled to the door and swung it open.

“Ugh,” he exhaled. “Who’s banging this early?”

It was Chloe. She stood there, petite and glowing, her smile bright enough to pierce through his hangover. A bottle of martini dangled from her hand like a peace offering.

“Good morning, stranger,” she teased, stepping inside before he could answer.

“Then let’s fix that,” Chloe said, raising the bottle with a wink. “Hair of the dog.”

“To us,” Chloe whispered, her eyes lingering on him.

Duke clinked his glass against hers. The liquid burned down his throat, waking up parts of him he had hoped to keep dormant.

Back at her apartment, Ntalami tied off the last loop of yarn. Her crochet bag was almost done, hot pink petals blooming against a yellow background. She held it up, admiring her work through tired eyes. For a moment, she felt a flicker of pride. She snapped a few photos and sent them to a friend who often bought her designs. If they didn’t want it, she’d post it on her I*******m stories.

Her phone buzzed with notifications, but she ignored them. She stood, stretched, and trudged back to her bedroom. As soon as she lay down, the ghosts returned.

Memories of Duke crowded her mind: his laughter, his warmth, and the sharpness of his cruelty. Her left leg still ached faintly from the last fight they’d had, but the ache in her chest was far worse.

The fight had started over something small , a stranger at the club had complimented her smile. She had smiled back politely. That was all. But Duke had exploded, dragging her out into the night like she was a child caught stealing. His words had cut deeper than his fists: dirty names, insults, accusations. The bruise on her leg had faded, but her spirit bore the darker wounds.

Yet, she always took him back. Every time he left, he returned with promises of change, of love, of forever. And every time, she chose to believe him. She had dated other men, kind men, but none of them lit the fire in her chest like Duke did. His toxicity was a drug, his unpredictability a dangerous thrill she couldn’t quit.

She whispered to herself, “Why do I always run back to the one who hurts me?”

Meanwhile, Duke and Chloe’s laughter filled his living room. Their glasses emptied quickly, the martini softening the sharp edges of reality. Chloe leaned closer, her thigh brushing against his.

“Remember in high school?” she said softly, her eyes sparkling with nostalgia. “You used to wait outside my class just to walk me home.”

Duke smiled faintly. “Yeah. You were the only girl I wanted back then.”

“You still want me?” she teased, her voice barely above a whisper.

The question hung heavy in the air. Duke reached out, his hand grazing her thigh. She shivered but didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned in, closing the space between them.

For years, Chloe had been his “childhood friend” in name, the excuse he gave whenever Ntalami questioned their closeness. But the truth was simpler, darker, Chloe was the one he had always wanted, the safety net he kept close in case Ntalami slipped away.

As Chloe moved closer, her lips just a breath from his, Duke’s thoughts flickered briefly to Ntalami, her patience, her devotion, her unseen scars. But the liquor drowned the thought quickly.

And in that moment, the line between friendship and desire blurred into something neither of them could undo.