Chapter 19: The Truth Behind the Silence
It started with a voice I hadn't heard in months.
A familiar one.
One that made my breath catch in my throat like it had been holding onto hope all this time.
"Tubo?"
I froze.
The sound came from behind me — low, hoarse, uncertain.
I turned slowly.
And there he was.
Elijah.
Not the Elijah I remembered — not the one who used to walk into Grandma's backyard parties with a book tucked under his arm and a smile that could light up an entire room.
This Elijah looked thinner. His eyes were darker, shadowed by something I couldn't name. There were faint scars along his neck, barely visible beneath his collar. His posture wasn't relaxed like it used to be. It was guarded. Tense.
He stood at the edge of the sidewalk like he wasn't sure if he was welcome.
Like he didn't know if I'd slap him or hug him.
Maybe both.
"Is that really you?" My voice cracked.
He nodded, eyes searching mine like he was afraid I wouldn't recognize him.
"I tried to come back," he said softly. "I never stopped trying."
And just like that, the floodgates opened.
----
It started on what should've been a normal evening.
Elijah had gone out to grab dinner after work — nothing unusual about it. He worked late shifts sometimes as a freelance writer, often meeting clients at odd hours. That night, he was heading to a small downtown café to meet with a publisher interested in his new manuscript.
He typed a draft of text message meant for me stating:
"I am sorry baby, I'll be home soon. Save some sweet tea for me."
I never got that message from him.
What I didn't know — what no one knew — was that Elijah had unknowingly walked into the middle of a kidnapping ring operating under the radar of law enforcement.
He was grabbed off the street by two masked men outside the café.
No witnesses.
No cameras.
Just silence.
They shoved him into a black van and drove off.
His phone was taken immediately. Battery ripped out. SIM card destroyed. No chance to call for help.
He woke up in a basement.
Cold. Concrete floor. One dim bulb overhead.
There was no ransom note.
No explanation.
Only pain.
And fear.
----
For weeks, Elijah was kept in isolation.
Fed sparingly. Beaten when he asked questions.
The kidnappers didn't want money.
They wanted information.
Elijah had been working on a story — a deep-dive investigative piece on corporate corruption tied to illegal trafficking rings. He had names. Dates. Evidence. Enough to bring down powerful people.
Someone found out.
And they decided to make sure he never published it.
But Elijah didn't talk.
Even when they threatened to kill him.
Even when they showed him photos of me — saying they knew where I lived.
He stayed silent.
Because he knew if he told them anything, they'd go after me next.
So he took the beatings.
He endured the cold.
He whispered my name in the dark like a prayer.
And he waited.
Waited for a way out.
----
It happened during a storm.
The power flickered.
Security lights went out.
One of the guards left the door unlocked while fetching food.
Elijah saw his chance.
He fought.
Hard.
Broke free.
Ran through alleyways barefoot, bruised, bleeding.
He flagged down a cab and begged the driver to take him to the nearest hospital.
By the time he got there, he was half-dead.
Severe malnutrition. Internal injuries. Signs of psychological trauma.
Doctors stabilized him.
Reported the incident.
Filed a police report.
But by then, weeks had passed.
Weeks I thought he had abandoned me.
Weeks I spent crying into pillows, masking my pain with sequins, pretending I was okay.
He called me the moment he could.
But I had changed my number.
He messaged me online.
But I had blocked him.
He even showed up at Grandma's house once — only to find out I had moved.
And so he disappeared again.
Not by choice.
But because I had already let him go.
----
Recovery was slow.
Physically, he healed.
Mentally?
That took longer.
Elijah underwent therapy, counseling, and support groups. He testified against those responsible. The case made headlines — exposing the full scale of the operation that had targeted him.
Several arrests were made.
Justice, however partial, was served.
But the damage was done.
The woman he loved — the woman who wore cotton like armor and laughter like freedom — had moved on without knowing the truth.
He tried reaching out again.
Again.
And again.
Until someone finally told him:
"She thinks you left her."
And that broke him all over again.
----
We sat across from each other now — in the same little coffee shop where we had first talked about love, dreams, and the future.
Outside, the world moved on.
Inside, time stood still.
"I'm sorry," Elijah whispered. "I'm so sorry I couldn't reach you."
I stared at him, tears burning behind my eyes.
"You were gone," I said quietly. "You ghosted me. You left me thinking I wasn't worth fighting for."
He shook his head. "Never. Not for a second. I would have died for you, Tubo."
My heart clenched.
I believed him.
I did.
But belief didn't erase the hurt.
Or the confusion.
Or the years of grief I had carried thinking I had pushed him away.
"I thought I was too much," I admitted. "Too bold. Too loud. Too cotton-clad."
"You were perfect," he said, voice thick with emotion. "You always were."
I swallowed hard. "Then why did it feel like I lost you forever?"
He reached across the table and took my hand.
"Because I was stolen from you," he said. "And I don't expect you to forgive me overnight. But I need you to know — I never stopped loving you. Never stopped fighting to get back to you."
Silence settled between us.
Thick. Heavy. Full of everything we hadn't said yet.
And then, I asked the question I had been carrying for months.
"Do you still love me?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
Just one word.
But it shattered every wall I had built around my heart.
----
We didn't rush into anything.
We didn't kiss.
Didn't promise forever.
But we talked.
All night.
About what I went through. About how I nearly burned my panties. About how I started the blog and found myself again. About how I saw his face everywhere, how I cried myself to sleep, how I learned to stand tall even when it felt like the world had knocked me down.
And he listened.
With tears in his eyes.
With hands that trembled when I described the pain he didn't know he caused.
Finally, he whispered, "I wish I could take it all away."
I smiled softly. "You can't. But you can stay."
He nodded. "I will. As long as you'll have me."
I looked at him — really looked — and saw the man who had risked everything to protect me.
Who had suffered in silence so I wouldn't have to.
Who had come back to me not because he owed me, but because he still loved me.
And I realized something:
I hadn't lost him.
He had never left.
He had just been stolen.
And now… he was home.