SHORT STORY 1
“What She Keeps”
The first rule Aaliyah learned was simple: don’t owe anyone anything.
Not favours.
Not explanations.
Not feelings.
It kept her safe. It kept her rent paid. It kept her name clean enough to say out loud without someone tilting their head and asking questions. She ran her life like a ledger — balanced, quiet, no emotional overdrafts.
Which is why she didn’t touch him.
Not when he leaned against the shop counter late at night, sleeves rolled, knuckles nicked, eyes always scanning like the room might turn on him.
Not when he remembered how she took her tea without asking.
Not when he stayed an extra minute after closing, not speaking, just existing in the same air.
Malik cost too much.
He was known.
Not famous — worse than that. Recognised.
The kind of man whose name meant different things depending on who said it and where they were standing. The kind of man whose presence made conversations pause, then resume quieter.
Being seen with him would undo everything she’d built.
So she kept it professional.
Until the night her cousin came in shaking.
Until the door slammed open and Malik was suddenly there, blocking the view from the street, voice low, steady, asking questions she didn’t have time to think through.
Until Aaliyah realised that the calm she felt wasn’t fear.
It was relief.
Afterwards, when the shop was quiet again and her cousin safe upstairs, Malik stood by the door like he always did — halfway gone, halfway waiting.
“You good?” he asked.
She nodded. Too fast.
He didn’t push. He never did. That was the problem.
Loving him would mean being seen.
Being spoken about.
Being pulled into a narrative she couldn’t control.
But not loving him meant this — pretending she didn’t feel steadier when he was near, pretending she didn’t trust him with the parts of her life she guarded hardest.
Aaliyah reached for the kettle. Her hands shook.
“I can’t—” she started.
“I know,” Malik said gently. “I wasn’t asking you to.”
That was the moment.
Not the danger.
Not the rumours.
Not the fear.
The moment he gave her the choice.
She exhaled, slow and deliberate, like she was signing something binding.
“I don’t want to owe you,” she said.
He met her eyes. “I don’t want to own you.”
Silence held them — thick, careful, alive.
Loving him would cost her her invisibility.
But she was tired of hiding behind balance sheets and silence, tired of surviving instead of choosing.
She poured the tea.
Set down two cups.
And let herself be seen.
Why this story fits WRITE WHAT HOLDS
- Love has real cost (visibility, reputation, safety)
- Desire is contained, not indulgent
- The choice is quiet but irreversible
- Nothing explodes — but everything shifts
If you like this approach, next we can:
- write WRITE WHAT HOLDS – Module 2 (Genre instinct)
- or jump to WRITE WHAT BURNS – Desire Under Pressure
- or write one short per volume, then expand later
Tell me which module or volume you want next and I’ll continue the series.
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