The day I got my first C in News Writing and Reporting, I didn't cry.
I just stared at the result slip like it had betrayed me on purpose.
But I knew the truth.
I hadn't been focused. My mind had been drifting — always to Tunde. His voice, his parents, the pressure, the weight of a world I wasn't sure I belonged in.
I was in love. Yes.
But love alone couldn't hold me up when the ground beneath was shifting.
"You're not yourself these days," said Ngozi, my roommate — bright-eyed, blunt, and always ten steps ahead of everyone's gist.
"I'm fine," I said without looking up.
She dropped her sachet water and turned fully toward me. "No, you're not. You haven't gone for your group meetings. You forgot our radio slot. And you're always lost in your head."
"I'm just... tired."
"No," she said, arms folded. "You're in love. And it's eating you."
I wanted to argue. But the truth was already tightening my chest.
That night, I sat cross-legged on my bunk, opened my notebook, and wrote:
You can be in love and still lose yourself. You can hold someone close and forget your own name. I refuse to disappear inside someone else's story.
The next day, I told Tunde I needed space.
We were in the reading area, and the sky above us hung heavy with grey clouds. The smell of coming rain was everywhere.
"I don't want to break up," I said quickly, seeing panic flash across his face. "I just need room to breathe."
He sat still for a long moment. "Is this about my parents?"
"It's about me," I said quietly. "I'm losing my rhythm. My grades, my voice, my sense of self... I can't hear myself anymore."
He looked like the words hit him in the gut. "But I love you."
It was the first time he'd said it out loud.
"I love you too," I whispered. "But right now, I need to love myself more."
He reached for my hand. I let him hold it for a moment before gently pulling away.
"I'll wait," he said. "Even if you never come back, I'll still wait."
And just like that, I walked away.
But this time, it wasn't punishment.
It was protection.
For the next few weeks, I disappeared into my books.
I stayed up late studying. I joined a podcast team. I started a mini-series interviewing campus vendors — The Hustle Corner. People began to notice. My lecturers called me "the radio girl." One even recommended me for a media internship.
Slowly, I felt Mercy return — not just the girl who loved a boy, but the one who dreamed in bold fonts and clear headlines.
I saw Tunde around. Sometimes we exchanged waves. Sometimes we didn't. He looked thinner. Quieter. Like he, too, was rebuilding himself.
Then the call came.
I had been selected for a summer internship at City 105.9 FM — one of the biggest stations in the state.
I screamed. I leaped onto Ngozi's back. I called Mama. She cried like I'd just graduated top of my class.
"This na your breakthrough," she kept repeating. "No look back, my pikin."
And I didn't.
I packed my two jeans, three tops, and old sneakers and left for the city
Life in the city was loud, bright, and fast — and I loved it.
In the mornings, I followed presenters, edited scripts, managed socials. Afternoons, I recorded community stories. Nights, I collapsed in bed with a full heart.
One evening, my phone buzzed.
Tunde: I'm proud of you. Always have been.
I stared at the message for a long while before typing:
Me: Thank you. I hope you're doing okay too.
That was it. No long conversation. No digging up the past.
Just two people who once held each other's hearts, now drifting on different tides.
When I returned to campus, I wasn't the same.
I had stories. I had a feature on the school blog. A small stipend in my account. People stopped me in hallways.
"Mercy the radio girl!"
"I listened to your piece on market women — mad oh!"
I smiled, answered questions, shook hands. But there was a quiet emptiness.
A missing piece I hadn't wanted to name.
One evening, I passed the mango tree where Tunde and I used to sit.
He was there.
We locked eyes. No smiles. Just stillness.
I walked over.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"You look... different."
He nodded. "So do you. Brighter. Bigger."
We sat down — no need to ask. Muscle memory.
"How was the internship?" he asked.
"Life-changing," I said.
"I listened," he added. "Every single day. Saved some clips."
My heart stirred.
"You've been good?" I asked gently.
He paused. "Trying. That's the word — trying."
We didn't talk about Sharon. Or his parents. Or the silence between us.
Some wounds don't need reopening.
"I missed you," he said quietly.
I looked at him. "I missed you too."
We sat in silence, under the rustling mango tree — two people who had loved, let go, and grown.
Not everything broken needs fixing.
Sometimes, it just needs understanding.