“So… what are we?”

It was a Tuesday.

Not just any Tuesday—the kind that feels like the universe pressed snooze on life and forgot to wake it back up. My bra was digging into my ribs like it owed me money, my hair was in a bun so messy it looked like a bird’s nest during a hurricane, and he… well, he was shirtless. Again. Wearing the same boxers with the suspiciously large leg hole, which at this point I suspected had become a fashion statement.

We were in his “apartment.” And by apartment, I mean a single room that was doing overtime pretending to be a living room, bedroom, and kitchen. The couch we sat on had seen things. The springs poked you like it was trying to remind you of all your bad decisions—including sitting there in the first place.

We were watching Prison Break—again. He insisted it was “intellectual” television. I insisted it was just a lot of tattooed men running around.

Burnt popcorn sat between us in a plastic basin because he said it “gives a more authentic feel.” I was beginning to feel like this entire relationship was a poorly written sitcom that forgot the punchline.

And that’s when I felt it. That weird itch in your soul. You know, the one that tells you you’re in something, but you don’t know what that something is. Like downloading a movie and realizing halfway through it’s in Russian with no subtitles.

So I asked.

“So… what are we?”

He blinked like I’d just asked him to recite the Periodic Table backward.

“Huh?”
“I mean… what are we? You and me. This. Us.”

He scratched his chin with all the seriousness of a philosopher and said,
“We’re… vibing. No?”

Vibing.

The word slapped me across the face with the force of a thousand ignored red flags.
I took a deep breath, trying to stop my eye from twitching.

“Okay. So where is this vibe going?”

He leaned forward, paused the TV like he was about to deliver a TED Talk.
“Going… like emotionally? Or like… do you wanna go to Naivas and grab some ice cream?”

I blinked.
“I mean this relationship. Is it heading somewhere? Or are we just orbiting each other like confused planets waiting to collide?”

He chuckled.
“Babe, don’t ruin the vibe with labels. Labels kill energy.”

Ah. The Energy. Of course.

I looked around. The lights were off. Not because of a power cut. But because he hadn’t paid the bill in two weeks. The fridge hummed like it had depression. There was one spoon in the sink. Just one. And it hadn’t been washed since the first episode of Prison Break.

And that’s when it hit me. I had more structure in my fridge than in this relationship.

I stood up. Grabbed my bag.

He looked confused. “Where you going?”

“Home.”

“But babe, I thought we were chillin’.”

“We were. But now I’m chilling… with my self-worth.”

And just as I was reaching the door, he called out, “Wait! I was going to ask you to move in next week!”

I turned. My heart did a little hop. Hope peeked its head out. Maybe he did want more.

“…to help me split the rent,” he added, scratching his belly like it was a full-time job.

I closed the door.

Not just the physical one, but the metaphorical one too. On that chapter. On those vibes. On his entire nonsense.

I walked home under the Nairobi night sky, the smell of burnt popcorn still clinging to my hoodie, tears threatening to fall—but never quite making it. Because even in heartbreak, I was oddly… free.

And somewhere, deep in my bag, my phone buzzed.

A text from my best friend.
“He said what?! GIRL. Come over. I have wine and Wi-Fi.”

I smiled.
Because yes, I