Chapter 8: The Quiet Years
Chapter 8: The Quiet Years
Between 2016 and 2020—right up to the COVID-19 lockdowns—those years are just a blur of absence and silence. I don’t have good memories from that time. I missed countless phone calls, texts, and emails—not because I didn’t care, but because I was slowly disconnecting from everything and everyone. That was when Josephine stopped arriving at my door. No doubt, the club had a hand in that.
Life became reduced to its bare essentials: I got up, did my weekly shopping, and came back to the quiet. No visits, no laughter in the hallway, no cups of tea shared at the kitchen table. I didn’t even flinch anymore at the silence. It just settled in.
And to be honest, I stopped caring what others thought or whispered behind my back. They weren’t here. They didn’t see how far we’d come—or how far we’d fallen.
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Some weeks blurred into each other. The days didn’t feel like milestones anymore—just space to fill. I stopped looking out the window hoping to see Josephine walking up the path. That hope had a way of hurting more than the silence itself.
I’d go to the shops like it was the only duty left to perform, moving through aisles as though I were sleepwalking. The cashier would ask if I needed a bag, and I’d nod, not really hearing them. Most of the time, I’d head home, unpack, eat something quick, and sit in the same chair for hours, doing nothing. No calls. No knocks on the door. Just time.
There were moments I wondered if I had imagined all the years before. The laughter, the shared meals, the nights Josephine would show up unexpectedly with a story or a problem to solve. All of it faded like a dream I couldn’t hold onto. I couldn’t say for sure when exactly she stopped coming. It wasn’t a clean break. It was more like a slow fade, each missed visit dissolving into another.
And deep down, I knew why. The club. It had taken up more and more of her time, her energy, her identity. Somewhere along the way, it had also taken her from me. They didn’t just train her or guide her; they pulled her in so tight that there wasn’t room for much else. Not even old friends.
I never said anything to her. What would’ve been the point? She was part of something now—something I wasn’t allowed to touch. Maybe she thought I’d be fine. Maybe she didn’t notice the door had stayed closed for years.
When COVID hit, it didn’t change much for me. The world was already locked down, as far as I was concerned. Others panicked about isolation. I had been practicing it for years.
When COVID hit, it didn’t change much for me. The world was already locked down, as far as I was concerned. Others panicked about isolation. I had been practicing it for years.
But somewhere in the silence of those months, something stirred. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no breakthrough moment, no grand epiphany. Just a quiet ache I couldn’t ignore anymore. I found myself thinking about Josephine more often. Not out of anger or longing—but concern.
I remembered her stories. The rising club fees. The meals she’d skip to make sure she could still attend. The way she’d smile through exhaustion, always pretending she was fine. I realized that if things were hard before the lockdown, they must have been nearly impossible after it.
So, I started putting a few things together. Just small packages at first—essentials, snacks, toiletries. Things I thought she might need but wouldn’t ask for. No notes, no return expectations. Just gestures. Quiet, like the years had been, but filled with something that had gone missing for a long time: care.
I didn’t know if they made a difference. I still don’t. But I sent them anyway.
It was the only way I knew how to say, I’m still here. Even if she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—walk through the door anymore.