The weeks that followed felt like walking on a wire stretched thin between hope and despair. Mike's acceptance into the Abuja tech incubator was both a blessing and a curse. Every day spent preparing for the move carved an invisible line between him and Danika one neither of them dared cross too quickly, afraid the tension might shatter what little they had left.
Danika's shop was thriving. Her hands, once trembling with uncertainty, now moved with confidence and speed, braiding hair, styling wigs, managing clients who came in from neighborhoods far beyond her own. She was "Madam Danika" now, a title she wore with pride, but also a weight.
That weight pressed heavier each time her mother appeared unannounced sitting in the shop's creaky chair, commenting on everything from the price of kerosene to Danika's choice of friends. She wasn't just a mother; she was a looming storm cloud threatening to drench Danika's hard-won sunshine.
One afternoon, Mike stopped by the shop after a long day of packing and calls with Abuja program coordinators. He found Danika wiping down the counter, face flushed from heat and worry.
"Hey," he said softly.
She looked up, forcing a smile. "Hey."
Mike noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the way her shoulders sagged just a little more than usual.
"How's your mom?"
Danika's smile faltered. "She's here again. Said she's staying until I 'prove my worth.'" Her voice cracked slightly. "Said if I don't change, no man will keep me."
Mike's jaw tightened. He reached out and took her hand.
"You're more than worthy. Don't let her make you believe otherwise."
Danika squeezed his hand, her eyes glistening. "I try not to listen. But it gets harder."
Mike sat beside her, heart aching at the quiet fracture growing between them.
That night, Mike lay in the small room he'd rented temporarily, the walls closing in with memories and doubts. His phone buzzed with a message from Danika.
"Can we talk? I'm scared."
He replied immediately, arranging to meet at a nearby park.
Under the dim glow of streetlights, the park was almost empty, the usual chatter replaced by the distant hum of Lagos night traffic. They sat on a bench, the air thick with unsaid words.
"What's scaring you?" Mike asked gently.
Danika took a shaky breath. "It's everything my mom, the shop, the past. I feel like I'm losing myself."
Mike's heart broke. "You're not alone in this."
She looked at him, eyes searching. "But what if we're losing us?"
Mike hesitated. "I don't want that."
"But the distance… the pressure… I don't know if I can be the woman you need right now."
Mike reached for her hand again. "You don't have to be perfect. Just be you."
Danika smiled through tears. "I'm scared to be that vulnerable."
Mike brushed a stray tear from her cheek. "I'm scared too."
Days turned into nights of phone calls filled with silence, texts left unanswered for hours, and the increasing weight of two lives pulling in opposite directions.
Mike's departure date loomed closer. Each packed box echoed with the unspoken fear that the space between them was growing too wide to cross.
One evening, as he folded a worn shirt, his phone buzzed. It was a video call from Danika.
He answered.
Her face appeared, eyes red-rimmed and tired.
"Mike," she whispered. "I don't know if I'm strong enough."
He swallowed hard. "You are."
"But sometimes love isn't enough."
Mike nodded silently, the truth settling heavy in his chest.
The night before his flight, Mike stood outside Danika's shop one last time. The sign gleamed faintly under the streetlight.
They embraced, holding on as if letting go might shatter them both.
"I'll call every day," Mike promised.
"I'll be waiting," Danika whispered.
But beneath the promises was a fragile question neither dared voice aloud:
Could love survive the distance? Could they?