Jose had opened the gate with that signature cheer of his.

“Marafiki wako wamekuja!”
Your friends are here!

But as I turned into the restaurant and saw only one familiar face, my heart shifted.
Not both Joy and Mike. Just Joy.

It wasn’t her first time at Tulia—far from it.
But it felt like it.
She moved differently. Spoke slower. Avoided shared spaces.

Without Mike, Joy was like bread without tea.
Complete on its own, maybe. But you still felt something missing.

On her third night, she asked to walk to the farm.
Said she had a craving for passion fruit.

We walked under moonlight, past the orchard where vines hung low with fruit and memory.
She plucked one. Then another.
Then paused.

And just like that—no warning, no build-up—she dropped it:

“I’m thinking of leaving Mike. He thinks I’m on a work trip.”

She didn’t cry.
But the tremor in her voice said enough.

“Our flame has faded. Our love has passed its time and he’s… oblivious to it.”

I didn’t say much. Just listened.

Because sometimes people don’t want advice.
They just want a space that doesn’t echo.

THE EMAIL

A week later, long after she’d gone, Mike’s email arrived.

Subject: “Need your help—top secret”

He wanted to surprise Joy with a weekend at Tulia.
Her birthday.
He was nervous. Unsure.

“She’s been distant. Quiet. I want to remind her of us. Of who we were.”

I sat with his message for a long time.
Hands frozen over the keyboard.

I couldn’t betray Joy’s confidence.
But I couldn’t stay neutral either—not when love was trying to find its way back.

THE PLAN

I didn’t respond with facts.

I responded with a feeling.

I helped him plan a stay built on reminders.
• The same room they stayed in during their first visit.
• Her favorite flowers in a handmade vase.
• A printed photo of them on the swing, left casually on the nightstand.
• Mango ice cream at turn-down, like she requested on their last visit

But I added something extra.

A handwritten card slipped between the pillows, unsigned:

“Sometimes, love doesn’t vanish.
It just waits for us to look again.”

THE STAY

He came alone.
Said Joy would join the next day.

He walked the gardens quietly that first afternoon.
Then sat under the neem tree, holding the photo I’d placed there.

When Joy arrived the following morning, she was surprised.
Not by the trip.
But by the intention.

The thought.
The quiet callbacks.
The care that said,

“I remember you. I still see you.”

THE TURN

That evening, I passed by the restaurant terrace.
They were laughing.
Holding hands across a candlelit table.
Not like strangers relearning each other—
but like lovers remembering they had never really forgotten.

THE AFTER

Before they left, Mike pulled me aside.

“Thank you,” he said.
“For the flowers… the mango ice cream… whatever else you did.”

He paused, then added:

“She told me she’d almost walked away.
And I realized… I already had. I just didn’t know it.”

I just smiled.
Didn’t tell him what I knew.
Didn’t need to.