Almost Ordinary

 The toast was burnt again. Not enough to set off the smoke alarm, but just enough to remind her that she was the only one home. She scraped the char off with the back of a butter knife, the sound rough and dry, like static. 

Her mother’s note was stuck to the fridge door with the same fading magnet shaped like a cartoon heart: 

I'll be back by 8pm. Eat something. Love you totes. Mom

Kiana read it out loud like she was reading a line in a school play. Her phone buzzed beside her: a group chat exploding with laughter emojis and half-baked gossip. She muted it without opening it. They’d ask why she was quiet again. Or worse, they wouldn’t notice at all. 

She slid into her hoodie, grabbed her bag, and walked out the door into the dull morning light. 

Kevin 

Kevin Van Der Walt’s mornings started slower. He wasn’t the same person he’d been a year ago. But the pieces hadn’t quite fit back together either. He sat on the edge of his bed, running a hand through his overgrown brown curls, blinking at the pale ceiling. His breath fogged a little in the morning cold. 

Downstairs, he could already hear little Ava laughing—probably chasing after something she wasn’t supposed to be touching. Maya’s voice was warm, patient, telling her to “leave the butter alone.” Nathan, his elder brother, was probably already gone for work. Kevin pulled on a plain black hoodie and jeans, tying his shoes in silence. His room was bare, mostly books and a couple framed prints he hadn’t bothered hanging. On his desk sat a water bottle, a half-used notebook, and a counseling pamphlet he kept forgetting to throw away. 

He stepped downstairs and found Maya, Nathan's wife, by the sink, rinsing dishes. She glanced back with a smile. “You’re up early.” “Early for me,” Kevin said, stretching. Ava peeked around the corner and grinned. “Uncle Kev!” “Morning, monkey.” He scooped her up effortlessly, spinning her in the air as she squealed. It was the part of his day he looked forward to most.

 Nathan wasn’t home, which made the kitchen feel lighter. “Got your session today?” Maya asked. “Yeah. Nine-thirty with Mr. Fredericks,” Kevin replied, lowering Ava gently. “Then a new student this afternoon. High school girl. Name’s Kiana, I think.” 

Maya gave a little hum. “Careful. Teenagers are sharp.” She smiled again but said nothing. By 9:00, he was already out the door, notebook in hand, heading for the small clinic in Rondebosch. It was a quiet part of Cape Town, full of coffee shops and students. Safe. Predictable. He liked it that way. Or at least, he told himself he did.

 Kiana 

She stepped out just after her mother had left for work, locking the gate behind her and pulling her blazer tighter against the early chill. Her bag was heavier than usual, mostly because of the English poetry anthology her teacher claimed would “change her life.” 

Yeah, right. 

She pulled out a folded note tucked neatly between the pages—her mother’s handwriting, slanted and neat. 

“Kiana — New tutor starts today. His name is Kevin Van Der Walt. 9 years tutoring experience. B.A. in English Lit from UCT. You better be at Rondebosch Library BEFORE 3PM. Don’t test me. Love you, Ma.” 

She read it twice, blinking at the line about his degree. She imagined some old white dude with a tweed jacket and breath that smelled like coffee and chalk. 

Just as she tucked the note back into her bag and rounded the corner, a voice broke through behind her. “Girl, you walking and reading again? You trying to die before finals?” Kiana turned to see Jada jogging up behind her, hair in a messy bun and headphones hanging around her neck. She was always late, always out of uniform, and always ten times funnier than she had any right to be. 

“Morning to you too,” Kiana said, adjusting her bag. “What you reading? New poetry crush? Don’t tell me it’s that anthology again—Songs for Dead Grandfathers or whatever.” “It’s about my new tutor,” Kiana said. “Starts today.” 

“Oh right,” Jada smirked. “Your mom scolded you like crazy, nê? ‘How do you get eighty for six subjects but sixty-minus-death for English?’ I heard her from my house.” “It was fifty-six, actually,” Kiana muttered. “I don’t get poetry, okay? Or literature. All these metaphors and ‘the tree means death’ nonsense.” 

Jada laughed. “Wait—is the tutor a guy?” Kiana gave her a look. “Why?” “Because now I’m picturing the forbidden romance of Kiana and Mr. Kev the English Guy. Tragic. Mysterious. Smells like mahogany and broken dreams.” “Oh my God,” Kiana groaned. “He teaches her Shakespeare, but ends up stealing her heart. But alas! Society says no!” 

Kiana shook her head, trying not to laugh. “It’s tutoring, Jada. Not a K-drama.” 

“Next you’ll be reading Sylvia Plath with tears in your eyes while he reads Neruda across the table and your fingers almost touch—” 

“I swear to God, if you write this down—” 

“Too late. I already see the Netflix deal.” 

They were both laughing now as they approached the school gates, dodging a group of loud Grade 9s and the overzealous security guard already yelling about latecomers. 

The school loomed ahead, familiar in that grey, boxy way that a public private schools always seemed to be. But somehow, in the middle of the usual noise and gossip and cracked paving stones, Kiana felt the slightest shift in her chest. Maybe today wasn’t going to be ordinary.

 Kevin 

The couch always felt too soft. It annoyed him in a way he couldn’t explain. Like it was trying too hard to convince him that this place was safe, that he was safe. But safety wasn't a feeling he trusted. 

It was something people dangled in front of you before they left, or worse, stayed and ruined you anyway.

 Dr. Fredericks tapped his pen twice against his notepad before speaking.

 “How’s the sleeping been?” 

Kevin rubbed the space between his eyes with two fingers. “Some nights are okay. Most are… white noise.” 

“And the dreams?” He hesitated.

 “They’re not dreams. It’s like watching something rot in slow motion.” 

He didn’t write that down. He never rushed him. 

“I still see her sometimes,” he said after a pause. “Lying there on the kitchen tiles. I used to think I’d forgotten what it looked like. But it’s clearer now than ever.” He swallowed. “Red around her mouth. Her eyes still open.”

 Dr. Fredericks nodded slowly. “Fourteen. That’s when you found her right?.”

 He nodded. “I remember the smell. The silence. I remember thinking I shouldn’t be seeing that. Like I opened the wrong door in my own life.” 

“You kept that door closed for a long time.”

 “Fifteen years.” “And it didn’t just disappear,” she said. “It waited.” He looked out the window—Rondebosch winter sky, grey and distant.

 “Yeah. It waited. I waited. Drinking helped. For a while. At least I could sleep without thinking.”

 “Until it stopped helping,” he said gently. Kevin gave a tight, humourless smile.

 “I had to hit bottom first, right?”

 “Rock bottom is where you stopped making excuses,” she said. 

“Seven months of sobriety is no small thing. But healing, Kevin… it isn’t meant to be easy.” 

He nodded slowly. “You’ve had it easy emotionally because you avoided truth. Alcohol, avoidance, isolation—those are easier than forgiveness. Than facing it.”

 He shifted on the couch. “I don’t think I ever forgave myself for not… doing something. For not saving her.” 

“You were a child,” he reminded him.

 “Children save people all the time in movies.” 

“This isn’t a movie.”

 Kevin let the silence sit between them. Dr. Fredericks flipped a page.

 “You’ve been tutoring again.” 

“Yeah,” he said, grateful for the change. “It’s been… good. Helps me stay structured. Show up for someone else. Be dependable.”

 “Something you weren’t for yourself for a long time.” 

“Exactly.” He exhaled.

 “I’ve got a new student this afternoon. Teenage girl. Mom reached out last week. Wants help with English Lit.” 

Dr. Fredericks gave a small smile. “You always were good with words.” 

Kevin raised an eyebrow. “Even when they’re someone else’s?”

 “Especially then. Sometimes we need other people’s words until we’re brave enough for our own.”

 He let that sit for a second. “I don’t know if I’m brave,” he said. 

“You showed up today.” He looked at him, then nodded once. Maybe that counted for something.

 Kiana 

“Okay, but listen to this.” Jada leaned in like she was about to drop the secret to the universe. She flipped open her lunchbox with dramatic flair and pointed to the sad sandwich inside. 

“My mom put a lettuce leaf. Singular. As if that’s gonna solve the fact that this chicken is older than my childhood trauma.” Kiana snorted into her juice box.

 “Swap you,” she said, holding up her banana like a peace offering. “It’s basically compost already.” 

They both burst into giggles, loud enough that a teacher glanced their way. Jada grinned back innocently, as if she hadn’t just made Kiana wheeze. They were sitting beneath the jacaranda tree near the back quad, where the ground was stained purple and the benches were always uneven. It wasn’t the cool kids table—but it was theirs.

 “So,” Jada said, nudging her. “Guess who asked me for my number today?” 

Kiana raised an eyebrow. “Please say it’s not Jordan.”

 “Okay rude. Jordan is tall now, thank you very much. But no. It was Malachi. From Maths.”

 “The one who asked if Africa was a country?”

 “The very one,” Jada confirmed, sighing like she’d just described a tragic love story.

 “Honestly, I might say yes. He’s got those dumb little eyelashes. The ones that make you forget he can’t spell ‘definitely’.”

 “You have a problem,” Kiana said, biting into her granola bar. “A type, actually.” 

“And what’s yours? ‘Mysterious older man who doesn’t exist?"Jada teased, leaning on her. Kiana rolled her eyes.

 “I don’t have a type. Or time. Romance is a distraction.” Jada let out a dramatic gasp. 

“You mean to tell me that the most beautiful, smartest girl in this entire school isn’t even looking? Kiana. You’re like a K-drama lead but without the tragic backstory.” 

Kiana laughed. “Says you. You literally cried watching Crash Landing on You.”

 “Because love is important,” Jada argued. “It’s like… math. But emotional. And hot.”

 “That’s the worst analogy I’ve ever heard.”

 “Okay but seriously. You’re like—effortlessly cool. I wish I could be like you. Pretty and emotionally unavailable.” Kiana shrugged, brushing crumbs off her skirt.

 “Maybe you’re just too available.” Jada blinked. 

“Was that shade?” 

“Definitely,” Kiana said with a grin. 

They both cracked up again, the kind of laughter that made everything—exams, gossip, the looming chaos of being seventeen—feel far away for just a moment.

 And Kiana, despite her words, let herself feel that warmth. Not romance. Just this—friendship, lightness, a rare moment of peace. Even if it never lasted long

 Rondebosch Public Library, late afternoon

 The Rondebosch Library was always colder than it should’ve been. The air-conditioning worked too hard inside, making the marble floors feel colder under Kiana’s sneakers. She stepped through the glass doors, her breath puffing slightly as she adjusted the strap of her schoolbag and scanned the open-plan space.

 Light filtered in through tall windows, dust floating lazily in the beams. The building smelled faintly of old paper, polish, and cheap hand sanitizer. Her eyes moved across the room—rows of high-backed chairs, oak bookshelves lined with peeling hardcovers, the soft clack of a keyboard from the computer corner.

 A few university students had taken over the study cubicles. An elderly man was nodding off with a crossword in front of him. Kiana hesitated at the entrance for a moment longer before walking toward the reception desk.

 “Hi, um,” she whispered, unsure if she was already being too loud, 

“I’m supposed to meet a tutor here this afternoon. I think his name’s Kevin?” The librarian glanced up from her desktop monitor. 

She wore chunky glasses on the tip of her nose and had two pencils stuck into a messy bun. “Kevin Jacobs?” the woman asked, then nodded toward the left wing of the library. 

“Corner table by the poetry section. Been here since just after three.” Kiana followed her gaze. At first, she didn’t see much. Just a guy in a dark hoodie, hunched over a thick notepad, scribbling something. A water bottle beside him. No music, no phone in sight. 

The pen in his hand moved rhythmically—scratch, pause, scratch again. She blinked. There was something quiet about him. Not just the stillness—but the way he occupied space like he was trying not to. His hoodie sleeves were slightly frayed at the cuffs. A black ring on his index finger. The tips of his boots were scuffed, and he kept tapping one foot, like he didn’t even know he was doing it. 

Something in her hesitated again. Not because he looked scary—he didn’t. But he didn’t look comfortable, either. Maybe she’d expected someone more… put-together? Less closed off? 

Still, she squared her shoulders and made her way over, slow but steady. As she neared the table, he glanced up. Dark brown eyes. A face that looked older than it probably was—not in wrinkles, but in something else. Something tired. He blinked once, then twice, like he hadn’t expected anyone to actually show. 

“You’re Kevin?” she asked. His mouth curved—not quite a smile. Just enough to be polite. 

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was low but clear. “You must be Kiana?” She nodded. “Yup.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “You can sit, if you want.” 

She slid into the seat, careful not to drag it too loudly on the floor. Up close, she noticed he had a single earbud in his left ear, not playing music—just resting there. His notepad was filled with neat notes, some underlined in blue, others marked with red stars. English Lit, judging by the quotes scribbled in the margins.

 “You’re on time, I like that.” he said after a moment. She shrugged. “I was already in the area.”

 He nodded, closing his book slowly. “Cool.” There was a brief pause. Not awkward. Just… still. Kiana folded her hands together on the table.

 “So,” she said, “what’s the plan?” Kevin leaned back slightly. “Well, I was told you needed help with analysis and essay structure.”

 “I don’t need help,” she corrected. “My teacher just thinks I should push for a distinction.” 

He raised an eyebrow—barely. “You always correct people that fast?” 

She smirked. “Only when they’re wrong.” 

He chuckled softly—once. Then opened a folder from his bag and pulled out a printout of the latest poetry exam. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s see if you can prove me wrong, then.”