Chapter Seven: Confession
---
6:02pm.
Josie set her fork down.
Plate empty.
Second helping gone.
Her stomach was full. Her chest was not.
Madam Bi stood at 6:03pm. “Ah, make I wash plate,” she said, gathering the dishes. She moved to the far corner of the kitchen, by the second sink. Water running.
The kitchen was large.
Too large.
With Madam Bi at the other end, it felt empty.
Private.
Josie hated it.
That kind of privacy made her skin prickle.
Made her remember the eye contact from before.
Made her remember _mine to cover_.
6:04pm.
She risked a glance at Orwell.
He was watching her.
Not with the scan.
The real one.
She’d caught him mid-thought.
When she looked, there it was.
Not wild. Not lurking.
Calm.
Patient.
But burning.
Low fire behind gray.
Something held back on purpose.
Josie’s breath hitched at 6:05pm.
She dropped her eyes to the empty plate.
Madam Bi finished at 6:06pm. “Oga, I don finish,” she called.
Orwell stood. “Thank you, Madam Bi.”
He turned to Josie. “Come.”
She followed him out of the kitchen at 6:07pm.
“Wait in the living room,” he said. “I’ll be down.”
Then he took the stairs. Two at a time.
Gone.
6:08pm.
The living room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Her eyes found the picture on the wall.
The man of God.
Gray suit. Kind eyes. _Greatest Love Story Writer_.
She stared at him.
Then something pulled her gaze right.
A window.
Tall. Curtains half drawn.
Behind them, the rain.
Peeking.
Calling.
6:09pm.
She shouldn’t.
She knew she shouldn’t.
But the living room felt heavy with _him_. With what he said. With what she saw.
The patio was there.
Glass doors.
She slid them open at 6:10pm.
Stepped out.
The air was cold. Wet. Clean.
The patio was covered, but the rain blew in at the edges.
It was beautiful.
Dark sky. City lights blurred by water. The sound finally audible out here. Real. Untamed.
Josie closed her eyes at 6:11pm.
She lifted her face.
Let the mist hit her cheeks.
Then her arms.
Palms up.
The way she always did.
She loved it here.
Loved the rain.
Loved how it made her feel alive instead of sick.
6:12pm.
A shadow fell over her.
Black.
Familiar.
The umbrella.
Again.
She didn’t even turn. She just knew.
Heat crawled up her neck.
Embarrassment.
Frustration.
“Seriously?” she muttered. “Does this keep happening?”
6:13pm.
“Josie.”
His voice.
Low.
Not soft.
Not patient.
Sharp.
She turned.
Orwell stood there holding the umbrella over her.
He’d changed shirts. White now. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hair slightly damp like he’d come out of the shower.
His jaw was tight.
His gray eyes were not scanning.
They were _hard_.
“Inside,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t have to. “Inside. Now.”
6:14pm.
Josie stared at him.
Stunned.
He was scolding her.
Actually scolding her.
For the rain.
For her health.
For doing the one thing that made her feel free.
The umbrella hovered.
His hand was steady.
But his eyes weren’t.
They were burning again.
Not with want.
With _something else_.
Worry.
Anger.
Fear.
“Orwell,” she started.
“Do you know what pneumonia does to weak lungs?” he cut in. Flat. Clinical. Cold. “Do you know what a relapse looks like at 2am when your oxygen dips?”
6:15pm.
Her mouth went dry.
He never talked to her like this.
Never.
He was always patient. Always _cover_.
Not this.
Not sharp.
Not afraid.
“You think this is a game?” he asked. “The rain? The cold? Your meds? Me?”
The last word hit her chest.
_Me_.
Josie stepped back.
The rain hit her shoulder now.
He moved the umbrella with her.
Still covering.
Even while scolding.
6:16pm.
She was stunned.
Completely.
Because Orwell, who ignored the heart flash, who buried moments under egg sauce, who said _sit_ and _eat_ and _more_, was standing here in the rain, furious.
Because she mattered that much.
---
6:16pm.
Josie opened her mouth. Defense ready. _It’s just mist._ _I’m not your responsibility._ _You don’t get to—_
“Josie.” He cut her off again. His voice dropped. Not soft. Tired.
“It’s getting late.” He didn’t wait. He stepped closer, umbrella angled to shield her completely.
His other hand barely touched her back. Guiding. Not pushing. Just Orwell.
6:17pm.
She walked. Stunned silent. Through the living room. Past the man of God with his kind eyes.
Out the front door. The rain was louder now. Fat drops hammering the portico like drums.
His car was already at the portico. Black, idling, windshield blurred with water.
He opened the passenger door at 6:18pm. She got in. He shut it. Walked around.
Got in the driver’s side. The umbrella was folded, dripping in the back seat.
The leather seats smelled like him. Clean. Soap. Something expensive and quiet.
6:19pm to 6:42pm.
Silence.
The AC hummed low.
He turned it off completely.
Windshield wipers kept rhythm against the storm outside.
Josie stared out the window. Streetlights smeared gold through the rain.
Orwell drove with both hands on the wheel. Knuckles relaxed but jaw still tight.
His profile was all hard lines. No _Hydrate_. No scan. No _mine_. Just the road.
The awkwardness was a third passenger. Thick. It sat between them, breathing.
Every red light, his eyes flicked to the mirror. Never to her. Never lingering.
6:43pm.
He pulled up at her dorm. Rain still falling. Pounding the roof now, wild and alive.
He killed the engine. Turned to her. Gray eyes met hers. No fire now. Just exhausted.
“I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” he said. Flat. Level. Gray.
No explanation. No _because I care_. He was already overwhelmed by his outburst from before, so he kept it vague. On purpose. As usual.
Then he reached behind him. Another umbrella. Black. Third one. He held it out to her.
His face gave nothing. But his eyes did. Steady. Certain. A vault cracked just for her.
6:44pm.
Josie took it. Their fingers didn’t touch. But his eyes did something. Not the scan.
Not the burn. Something deeper. _Covered_. The good kind of chills ran down her spine.
She couldn’t speak. Day had drained her. The scold. The smile. The egg sauce.
The fear in his voice. She just nodded. Too stunned to say anything.
Got out at 6:45pm. Opened the umbrella.
Cassie was at the dorm entrance, staring. Mouth open. Eyes doing gymnastics.
Josie walked past her. Full stomach. Empty words. Didn’t explain. Couldn’t.
---
The weekend came — 6:46pm Friday to 8:00am Monday
Friday night, she slept hard. Dreamed of umbrellas and gray eyes and rain on her tongue.
Saturday, it was all Laundry. Church. Cassie tried to interrogate her. Josie said _“he made egg sauce”_ and left it at that.
Sunday, she saw him across the hall. White shirt. Clipboard. Heart did a violent flip.
He didn’t look her way. Didn’t even blink. Like Friday was air. Like she was air.
On Monday at Bio 101. He walked past her in the hall. Their eyes met. One second.
Her pulse spiked. Stomach dropped. Throat closed. He nodded. Kept walking.
No _Hydrate_. No _Josie_. No _more?_ Just a nod. The kind you give a classmate.
Frustration burned under her skin. How could he look so calm when her blood was rioting?
Tuesday Physics lab. He was by the door talking to Dr. Ewenudi. She walked in.
He looked up. Held her gaze. Her heart did parkour. Then looked back at Dr. Ewenudi like she was air.
By Wednesday at 11:00am, Josie was spiraling. Did she imagine the smile?
Did she imagine the burn? Did she imagine _mine to cover_? Was it all a fever dream with yam?
---
Monday, 2:00pm — Auditorium Day
She wasn’t going alone. “Cassie,” Josie said at 1:50pm. “Come to the auditorium with me.”
Cassie’s eyes went wide. “The engineering class? With _him_?” “Yes.”
“Josie. What happened at his house?” Josie zipped her bag. Hands shaking.
“He made egg sauce. He scolded me. He gave me an umbrella. And now he’s acting like I don’t exist.”
Cassie grabbed her bag. “I’m in.” 2:00pm. They walked to the auditorium together.
Josie’s heart was pounding. Rain had started again. Soft. Threatening.
Because if it was a hallucination, she needed a witness this time.
Because the heart gymnastics were killing her and she needed proof it was real.
---
2:01pm.
Josie slid into the back row. Cassie beside her. Emotional support. Seeing eyes.
The four engineering girls were in row 3.
Perfume. Whispers. Barbie energy.
Orwell stood at the front. Clipboard tucked under one arm, white shirt crisp despite the humidity.
Iron face on. Jaw set like concrete. Gray eyes flat, sweeping the room without landing.
He started class at 2:02pm. Voice low. Precise. Each word clipped, efficient.
No _good afternoon_. No _settle down_. Just physics, formulas, and cold air.
2:02pm to 3:45pm.
Josie took notes she wouldn’t read. Her pen dug into paper, useless loops.
Cassie took notes and also watched. Eyes darting from board to Orwell to Josie.
The girls raised hands. Asked questions. Laughed too loud. Hair flips weaponized.
Orwell answered without looking up from the board. Chalk scraping like a blade.
Flat. Brutal.
“Wrong.” The word landed, echoing off the high ceiling. One girl flinched.
“That’s not relevant.” He erased her equation in one hard swipe. Dust fell.
“Sit down.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The auditorium went dead quiet.
He didn’t look at them. Not really. His gaze passed through them like glass.
Like he was disgusted. Or tired. Or both. The muscle in his jaw ticked once.
No scan for Josie.
No look.
Nothing.
By 3:20pm her chest hurt. Each breath felt borrowed. Her heart was a traitor in her ribs.
By 3:45pm Cassie was squeezing her knee under the desk. Anchoring her. _I see it too_.
3:46pm.
“Dismissed,” he said.
The girls left. Slow. Dragging. Hoping he’d say something. A name. A glance.
He didn’t watch them go. He capped his marker. Sound final. Absolute.
3:47pm.
Orwell’s eyes landed on Cassie. Sharp. Assessing. “You’re new.”
Cassie straightened. “Yes. Sir.” Her voice cracked on _Sir_.
“Stay. Tutorial protocol.” Flat. Non-negotiable. A command wearing politeness.
Josie felt it. Dissatisfaction. Disappointment. Bitter, crawling up her throat.
Why her? Why not me? The thought was ugly. She hated it. Hated herself for it.
She stood. Walked to the window at 3:48pm. Legs unsteady.
Rain. Still falling. Soft now. Endless. It blurred the entire manse into watercolour.
She watched it.
Listened to them. Low voices behind her. His flat, each syllable measured. Cassie’s nervous, tripping over answers.
3:52pm.
The voices stopped.
She turned.
Cassie was packing her bag. Fast. Eyes wide. Cheeks flushed. Terrified and thrilled.
And Orwell—
He was looking at her.
Finally.
The stare.
Not the scan.
Not the burn from the kitchen.
The real one.
Calm. Patient. Fire banked low behind gray. A hearth, not a wildfire.
Something ancient. Something that had been waiting years to look at her like this.
3:53pm.
Unease hit first.
Then the familiar adrenaline. Blood rushing. Skin prickling. Every nerve lit up.
Cassie felt it too.
She mumbled “Bye, Josie” and bolted. Bag strap catching on the chair.
Door clicked shut at 3:54pm.
It was just them.
Rain. Empty auditorium. The air suddenly too heavy to breathe.
3:55pm.
Orwell moved.
No words.
No hesitation.
He reached behind the lectern. Fingers sure. Like he knew exactly where it was.
Another umbrella. Black. Fourth one. The fabric whispered as he lifted it.
He held it out to her.
Not like an offering.
Not like a peace treaty.
Not like the frustrating, mind boggling deja vu from before.
Like habit.
Like ritual.
Like _of course_.
Like he’d done it a hundred times.
Like he’d do it a hundred more.
Comfortable. Inevitable.
3:56pm.
Josie looked up at him.
Like he was insane.
Her hand didn’t move.
Didn’t take the umbrella.
“You can’t be serious,” she said. Voice shaking.
His eyes didn’t flinch.
Steady.
Holding that calm, patient fire still.
The one from the kitchen.
The one that said _mine to cover_ without saying it.
3:57pm.
The door creaked.
Cassie. Peeking through the gap. Eyes huge.
She saw the umbrella. Saw Josie’s face. Saw his eyes.
She mouthed _oh my God_ and vanished.
Door clicked again.
3:58pm.
Just rain.
Just Orwell.
Just the umbrella between them.
Still hovering.
Still waiting.
Like the last three times never happened.
Like this was the first time.
Like it was always going to be this.
---
3:58pm.
The umbrella hovered between them.
Black. Silent. Patient.
Josie moved.
She snatched it from his hand.
And flung it.
It hit the floor at 3:59pm.
Clatter. Loud in the empty auditorium.
The handle bounced once. Rolled.
He didn’t flinch.
4:00pm.
“You think this is cute?” Her voice ripped out of her. Raw.
“Umbrellas? Egg sauce? _Hydrate_?”
She stepped forward. Chest heaving.
“I’m not your project, Orwell.”
He was still.
Hands loose at his sides.
Gray eyes steady.
4:01pm to 4:06pm.
She preached.
A whole sermon.
Words she’d swallowed for weeks.
“You don’t get to scold me. You don’t get to— to _look_ at me like that—”
Her breath hitched. “And then act like I’m air for three days straight.”
Her hands were shaking.
“You act like I matter. Then you don’t. Then you do. Make up your mind.”
He said nothing.
Just watched.
4:07pm.
“And my health?” She laughed. Broken sound.
“You want to play hero? You want to cover me? Why?”
Her voice dropped.
“Do you know what I have?”
Silence.
Rain against the windows.
“I’m sick, Orwell.”
“I’m going to die just like my mom did. Same disease. Same ending.”
Her eyes burned.
“And I’ll break my dad’s heart twice.”
“So someone like me— someone with an expiry date— is not worth protecting.”
4:08pm.
“Neither you nor my dad should believe in me. Because I’ll be gone soon.
"So stop. Stop giving me umbrellas like it means something. Stop—”
She ran out of air.
Out of words.
Out of everything.
4:09pm.
Orwell was at the far end of the room now.
When did he move?
Hands in his pockets.
Shoulders tight.
Holding himself back.
His gaze never left her.
Steady through the whole breakdown.
Not pity. Not fear.
Something else.
Something restrained.
Something that looked like pain.
He wanted to hold her.
She could see it.
In the line of his throat. In the flex of his hands.
But he knew.
If he touched her now, it wouldn’t end at a hug.
It would lead to more.
And he wouldn’t stop.
4:10pm.
Josie waited.
For the umbrella.
For arms.
For _anything_.
She’d just bled all over his auditorium floor.
Surely he’d—
“Madam Bi is making jollof rice tomorrow afternoon,” he said.
Flat. Gray.
Like she hadn’t just shattered.
“At my place. You can come. With your friend.”
4:11pm.
That was it.
No _I’m sorry_.
No _you’re wrong_.
No hug.
Just jollof rice.
Just Madam Bi as a buffer.
Just _bring your friend_.
Josie stared at him.
He stared back.
Calm patient fire still banked low.
4:12pm.
She bent.
Picked up the umbrella from the floor.
Stormed out.
4:13pm.
The door slammed behind her.
Rain hit her face immediately.
She didn’t open the umbrella.
She walked.
Fast.
Furious.
Feeling stupid for expressing herself.
Feeling exposed. Raw.
Feeling like a hungry dog for always, _always_ accepting his food.
4:14pm.
Cassie was waiting by the stairs.
Saw her face.
Didn’t ask.
Just fell in step beside her.
Held out her hand.
Josie gave her the umbrella.
Couldn’t hold it.
Couldn’t stand what it meant.
4:15pm.
Behind them, in the empty auditorium, Orwell exhaled.
Long. Slow.
Ran a hand down his face.
Looked at the space where she’d been.
Where her words still hung in the air.
_I’m going to die._
_Not worth protecting._
His jaw worked.
Once.
Twice.
Then he picked up his clipboard.
Walked out.
4:16pm.
Jollof rice.
With Madam Bi.
With her friend.
Because if he held her now, he wouldn’t let go.
And she wasn’t ready.
And he wasn’t sure she’d survive it.
Not the hug.
Him.
▪︎▪︎▪︎
