The following weeks felt like stepping back into a familiar rhythm I didn't know I had missed. Amara and I began seeing each other more often—sometimes for dinner, sometimes for coffee, sometimes just a quick chat after work. Nothing was official, nothing labeled, but we both knew this wasn't ordinary friendship.
At least, I did.
Every time we met, I found myself memorizing her all over again—the tilt of her head when she laughed, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke passionately about something, the quiet strength she carried even when she pretended not to.
And every time I drove her home, I wanted to reach across the console, take her hand, and tell her the truth: that I still loved her. That I had always loved her.
But the words stayed lodged in my throat.
Because the fear was there too—the fear of pushing too hard, of reminding her of the pain we'd caused each other, of making her walk away again. So I stayed silent, burying my feelings beneath casual smiles and careful words.
⸻
One Saturday afternoon, she invited me to join her for a charity event her firm was supporting. It was a children's outreach at a community center—games, gifts, and mentorship sessions.
"Don't wear anything too serious," she'd texted that morning. "It's supposed to be fun."
When I arrived, she was already there, surrounded by a group of kids, teaching them how to fold paper boats. Her laughter carried across the courtyard, and the sight of her crouched on the floor with those kids hit me in a way I hadn't expected.
She looked so natural, so radiant, as though she was made for moments like that.
"Daniel!" she called when she saw me. "Come, help us. The boys don't believe you can build a better boat than me."
I grinned, rolling up my sleeves. "Challenge accepted."
Within minutes, I was surrounded by curious faces, little hands tugging at my shirt as I tried to outdo Amara with my paper engineering skills. We ended up in a playful competition, the kids cheering loudly as we floated our boats in a basin of water.
Her boat tipped over almost immediately, and she gasped dramatically. "That doesn't count! Someone shook the basin."
I laughed, watching the kids tease her. She was glowing, her joy contagious, and I realized again just how much I had missed being a part of her world.
Later, after the event wound down and the children had been taken home, we sat together on a bench under the shade of a large tree. The air was warm, filled with the lingering sounds of laughter.
"You were amazing with them," I said softly.
She smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Kids are easy. They just want someone to listen, to play with them, to remind them they matter."
I nodded, watching her. "You've always had that gift, Amara. The way you care—it's… beautiful."
She looked at me then, her eyes searching mine. For a moment, it felt like she wanted to say something, but instead she looked away, exhaling softly.
"Daniel," she said after a pause, "why now? Why come back into my life after all this time?"
The question caught me off guard. I opened my mouth, closed it, then tried again. "I don't know if I came back… or if life brought us back. But I do know that I don't want to waste the chance."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "You make it sound so easy."
"It doesn't feel easy," I admitted. "It feels… terrifying. Because I don't want to lose you again."
The silence that followed was heavy. I could feel the weight of my own words hanging between us.
Finally, she stood, dusting her hands. "We should go. It's getting late."
I rose too, regret swirling in my chest. Maybe I had said too much. Maybe I had revealed too much of what I felt.
But as we walked to our cars, side by side, her hand brushed mine briefly. Not by accident.
And that small touch kept me awake all over again that night.
⸻
The days that followed were a delicate dance. We talked more, saw each other often, but we both avoided naming what was happening. The tension was unspoken but undeniable.
One evening, I picked her up after work, and we drove aimlessly around the city. Lagos at night was alive—street vendors, glowing billboards, the hum of traffic.
"Do you remember our long drives back in school?" she asked, leaning her head against the window. "We'd just get in the car and drive with no destination."
I smiled. "I remember. You always chose the playlist, though. I never had a say."
She laughed softly. "Because your playlists were terrible. Who listens to jazz when they're twenty-one?"
"Me," I said defensively. "Jazz is timeless."
She shook her head, still laughing, and I felt my chest tighten. God, I had missed this.
At a red light, I glanced at her. She was still smiling faintly, her hair illuminated by the glow of the dashboard. Without thinking, I reached over and tucked a stray strand behind her ear.
She froze, her eyes meeting mine.
For a heartbeat, the air thickened with possibility. I wanted to lean in, to close the gap between us, to finally taste the lips I had been aching for.
But the light turned green, and reality intruded. I pulled my hand back quickly, focusing on the road.
Neither of us spoke for the rest of the drive, but the silence was electric.
⸻
That weekend, I found myself at my drafting table, sketching again. Not buildings this time. Her. The curve of her smile, the spark in her eyes, the way her hair fell across her shoulders.
I stared at the drawing when I was done, both proud and ashamed. It felt too intimate, too vulnerable. But it was the truest reflection of what I felt.
I wanted her back.
I wanted us back.
And no matter how carefully I tried to hide it, my heart was already betraying me.