Sleep didn't come easily that night. I lay awake long after the city outside had quieted, staring at the ceiling as Amara's face replayed in my mind over and over again.
Her laugh. Her scent. The way her eyes softened when she looked at me, even though she tried to mask it with caution.
It was maddening.
I turned over, checked the clock—2:13 a.m.—and groaned. My body begged for rest, but my mind dragged me back, not to the present, but to five years ago, when we were still Daniel-and-Amara, inseparable.
⸻
We had met during our second year at university, in the architecture studio. She wasn't even an architecture student—she had just gotten lost trying to find her economics lecture. She had walked in, confused, clutching her timetable like it was a map, her hair tied in a messy bun and her eyes wide as if she had stumbled into forbidden territory.
"Hi," she'd said, scanning the room full of drafting tables and drawing boards. "Sorry, I think I'm in the wrong place."
Most people ignored her. Everyone was too busy cutting models or sketching diagrams. But me? I put down my pencil, walked up, and offered to help her find her way.
That was Amara—unexpected, unplanned, a distraction I didn't know I needed until she was standing in front of me.
We didn't start dating right away. At first, we were just friends—study partners, coffee buddies, two people who kept bumping into each other by "coincidence." But little by little, friendship blurred into something else. By the time we admitted our feelings, everyone around us already knew.
And God, those years with her… they had been some of the best of my life.
I remembered the nights we stayed up late, her head on my shoulder as I sketched and she read novels. The afternoons in the campus gardens, eating suya and laughing until my ribs ached. The little notes she used to slip into my bag before exams: "You've got this. I believe in you."
She believed in me more than I believed in myself. That was Amara—always pushing me, always seeing something greater in me that I struggled to see.
But it hadn't all been perfect.
I remembered the fights too—the way her stubbornness clashed with my pride. She hated when I shut down during arguments, and I hated when she raised her voice. We loved each other fiercely, but we fought fiercely too.
The beginning of the end came when she got the internship offer in South Africa. It was a dream opportunity for her—six months with an international firm, exposure that could launch her career. She wanted me to support her. And I did. At least, I told myself I did.
But deep down, I hated the idea of her leaving. I feared distance. I feared losing her. Instead of telling her my fears, I buried them beneath coldness and silence.
And when she finally left, the distance between us became more than just physical. Calls turned into arguments. Messages went unanswered. Pride got in the way of apologies.
The night it ended, I remembered shouting things I didn't mean. She did too. Words like daggers. Words that couldn't be taken back.
I remembered the sound of her voice breaking as she said, "Maybe we're not meant to be, Daniel."
And just like that, the chapter closed.
⸻
I rolled onto my back again, staring into the dark. I thought I had healed. I thought burying myself in work, keeping busy, dating casually but never seriously, was enough to move forward. But seeing her yesterday shattered that illusion in seconds.
The truth was brutal and simple: I had never stopped loving her.
⸻
The next morning, I tried to shake off the memories. Work awaited, and my schedule was packed with client meetings and site visits. Architecture demanded precision, focus, discipline—qualities that usually kept my mind from wandering.
But not today.
As I sat through a meeting about a new residential project, I found myself sketching absentmindedly in the corner of my notepad. Not buildings this time. Not elevations or floor plans.
Her face.
I quickly tore the page out and stuffed it in my folder, hoping no one had noticed. But it only made it clearer: she was in my head, and she wasn't leaving.
That evening, I found myself driving past the café again, as if some magnetic pull had dragged me there. She wasn't around, of course. But just being in the place where I had seen her felt like I was chasing something—hope, maybe.
It was reckless. But it was real.
⸻
That night, more memories came.
I remembered our first trip together—Abuja, during a long holiday. We had stayed at a modest hotel, explored the city, eaten at street stalls, and laughed our way through museums. She had a way of turning even the simplest moments into adventures.
I remembered her birthday surprise during our final year. I had saved up for months to buy her the necklace she'd admired at a store. When I gave it to her, she had cried and kissed me so fiercely I thought my heart might explode.
I remembered the little fights that always ended with one of us showing up at the other's door, pride forgotten, just needing to be close again.
It was love in its rawest form—messy, imperfect, but real.
And I missed it. I missed her.
⸻
By the third day, I couldn't take it anymore.
I picked up my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I found her number. I had never deleted it, though I had told myself I would a hundred times. My thumb hovered over the call button, my heart thundering.
What would I even say? Hey, I can't stop thinking about you after bumping into you once? It sounded ridiculous.
Still, the need to hear her voice again was stronger than my fear of sounding foolish.
I pressed the button.
The phone rang once. Twice. My pulse raced.
Then her voice came through, soft and cautious. "Hello?"
For a moment, I couldn't speak. I just sat there, clutching the phone like a lifeline.
"Amara," I finally breathed. "It's me. Daniel."
There was a pause, then a faint chuckle. "I know. I still have your number saved."
That admission did something strange to me—hope flickered in the dark corners of my heart.
"I was wondering," I said carefully, "if maybe you'd like to have dinner sometime. Just to… catch up properly."
Another pause. My stomach twisted.
Finally, she said, "Dinner sounds nice."
And just like that, the door to the past creaked open again.