Tunde and I didn't jump back into anything. We didn't kiss under the tree or hold hands like old times. We just talked — about life, exams, projects, the weather.
But something about those talks made the air feel softer.
He was still him — kind, honest, curious — but something in his eyes had changed. Less fire, more thought. Like he'd done his own soul-searching while I was gone.
"So what now?" he asked one evening, as we sat on the steps of the broadcast hall.
"What do you mean?"
"Us. This... thing between us. Do you still feel it?"
I stared up at the sky. It was that soft blue of early evening, the kind that felt like anything could happen.
"Yes," I said finally. "But I'm not the same Mercy who met you under that mango tree."
He smiled. "Good. I didn't fall for a girl who stays the same. I fell for the one who keeps becoming."
My breath caught in my throat.
"You know," I said quietly, "I used to think love was about butterflies and kisses. But I think it's also about being seen. And letting yourself be seen, even when you're messy and unsure."
Tunde reached over and gently touched my hand. "Then let's see each other properly this time."
I nodded.
This time, we were in no rush. We weren't playing characters in a love story. We were just two people, choosing each other again — with full eyes and cautious hearts.
Final exams came like a storm. I was buried in notes, coffee, and anxiety.
Tunde and I studied separately most of the time — partly for focus, partly to protect the fragile thing growing between us.
But every now and then, he'd send a message:
Tunde: "Don't forget to eat. Brains don't run on vibes alone."
Or
Tunde: "Just saw someone wearing a red shirt and sandals like you. I almost ran to hug her. Nearly disgraced myself."
And once:
Tunde: "When we graduate, can we start again? Like… really?"
I didn't reply to that one.
Not because I didn't want to.
But because I wanted to.
Too much.
Then came graduation week.
I stood in front of the mirror wearing my black gown, the cap sliding down my braids. Mama had sewn me a new native dress to wear underneath — yellow and blue with little sunflower prints.
She was already in the crowd, saving a seat with her wrapper and handbag.
"You're glowing," Tunde said, appearing behind me with his own gown in hand.
"You're late," I replied.
"You're still beautiful."
I blushed.
After the ceremony, Mama hugged me for ten whole seconds, weeping and praying in the same breath.
"See my daughter!" she shouted. "Mass Comm graduate! God I thank you oh!"
Tunde came over, all smiles. "Good afternoon, ma."
Mama smiled at him but said nothing.
We stood awkwardly until she leaned closer and whispered to me, "Na the boy?"
I nodded.
She studied him for a long moment. Then, she reached out and patted his shoulder. "Make you treat her well, you hear?"
He grinned. "Yes ma. I promise."
And for the first time, it felt like maybe — just maybe — we were being written into a different kind of story.
Two weeks later, I got an email.
Subject: CITY RADIO FULL-TIME OFFER
I stared at it for five minutes before opening it.
They wanted me. Not as an intern — as a junior on-air presenter. Salary, benefits, real hours. It was everything I had worked for.
But the station was two hours away. It meant moving. It meant starting life… alone.
Tunde was the first person I called.
He picked on the first ring.
"I got the job."
"WHAT?! Are you serious?!"
"I am."
He whooped so loudly I had to pull the phone away from my ear.
"When do you start?"
"Next month."
Then silence.
"You'll move?" he asked.
"I have to."
"I know," he said. "I just didn't think it would be so soon."
We didn't say much after that. Goodbyes were beginning to feel familiar.
The night before I left, he came to my hostel with jollof rice and Fanta.
"This is our farewell dinner," he said. "Don't argue."
We ate on the floor, legs crossed, laughing in that quiet, tender way you do when you're trying not to cry.
After the plates were empty, he reached into his pocket.
"This is for you," he said, handing me a small brown envelope.
Inside was a flash drive and a tiny note that read: For when you miss the sound of us.
I opened the drive that night.
Inside were voice notes, audio recordings — our old campus radio episode, my first podcast, clips of us laughing between takes. And one file labeled simply: Mercy.
I pressed play.
It was his voice.
> "You once said love isn't enough to feed a person. Maybe that's true. But loving you fed parts of me I didn't know were starving. I don't know what the future holds. But if this is the last time I get to say this, then hear it now —
I loved you.
I love you.
I will always love you."
I moved the next morning.
Mama cried, of course. Packed me dry fish and gari like I was relocating to London. Tunde didn't come to the bus park. I didn't expect him to.
But right before I boarded, my phone buzzed.
Tunde: "Go change the world, Mercy. And don't forget who you are."
Me: "I'll never forget. Because I met you."