Amara sat on the edge of her bed, knees pulled to her chest, the faint hum of Nairobi traffic filtering through her open window. Outside, the world moved with purpose. But inside her small apartment, time stood still.
It had been almost two years since she'd left Europe. Since Markus.
She had tried to bury the memories, lock them in dusty boxes at the back of her mind. But some nights—like this one—they escaped. They floated around her like ghosts wearing the scent of his cologne.
She could still remember the way his fingers felt against her cheek the first time he kissed her. She was shy, clumsy with emotion. He was patient, elegant, and impossibly charming. The hotel in Prague had dim lighting, a fire crackling in the hearth, and jazz playing faintly in the background. She had been working late, and he stayed behind after closing.
"I couldn't leave," he had said, leaning against the bar. "Not without knowing your name."
Her laugh had been nervous. "I'm just a waitress."
"No. You're the only reason I'll remember this city."
And when he kissed her that night—it wasn't fireworks. It was gravity.
---
In the weeks that followed, he became a part of her world. A scarf wrapped around her during cold evenings. A quiet hand across the table. Eyes that saw into her and told her she was more than just a struggling student in a foreign land.
They had taken weekend trips to the countryside. Danced barefoot in the snow. Made love in a stone cabin under layers of quilts and whispers.
She remembered how his lips always brushed her collarbone when he pulled her close. The way he would trace the curve of her waist like he was memorizing her. How his voice dipped into velvet when he said her name.
"Amara."
She could still hear it.
Some nights, it slipped into her dreams, dressed in warm affection and the illusion of safety.
---
She got up and walked to the kitchen, filling a glass of water. Her hands trembled.
Why did you do this to me, Markus?
She had loved him wholly. Recklessly.
The kind of love you only give once. The kind that doesn't check for cracks in the floor until the ceiling collapses.
She gave him her heart, her body, her trust. She showed him the scared girl behind the strong voice. Let him see her at her most vulnerable. She had cooked for him, shared her childhood stories, even confessed the shame she felt for not being able to help her family more.
And he had kissed her forehead and said, "You don't have to be everything. Just be mine."
She believed him.
Until the lies started to surface.
---
One night, they had returned from dinner—an anniversary of sorts. Markus had run her a bath, candles flickering around the rim of the tub.
She was laughing about something silly—spilling wine on herself at the restaurant. He was already undressing beside the bathroom door.
"Join me," she said, her voice low.
He stepped into the water, easing behind her. His arms wrapped around her chest, his lips brushing her shoulder. They didn't speak much—just the sound of water sloshing and the occasional shared sigh.
Then he whispered, "Do you know how long I've waited for someone like you?"
Her heart stopped.
She turned to look at him.
And the look in his eyes then—God, it was like he meant it.
She leaned back into him, safe in a love she thought was eternal.
---
After the bath, they moved to the bed. Markus was never hurried in lovemaking. He took his time. His kisses were slow, purposeful. His hands worshipped. He would trace the inside of her thighs until she begged. Whisper into her mouth as if speaking directly to her soul.
"You're my queen," he had murmured. "No one else will ever matter."
She wanted to believe that. With every moan, every gasp, every arch of her back, she believed it.
Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm. Eyes locked. Souls intertwined.
It wasn't just sex.
It was poetry.
---
And now?
Now, she hadn't seen his face in months.
But he haunted every corner of her life. Like a curse she never saw coming.
He sabotaged her job interviews. Bribed her friends. Monitored her bank account. All while pretending she never existed.
How did a man who made love like that... turn into a ghost with knives?
Was any of it ever real?
Did he mean it when he called her his queen?
Or was it all a game?
---
She curled on the couch, wrapping her arms around herself.
There was a time she thought they would grow old together. Maybe open a vineyard in Tuscany. Maybe adopt a child. Maybe build a life out of love and shared breakfasts.
Now, she had nothing.
Except the memories.
And the broken pieces.
Still...
Somewhere inside that pain lived something else.
A spark.
If she had loved him that deeply, then she was capable of something powerful.
Something fierce.
She would love herself just as much.
And this time, no one would turn that love into a weapon.