For weeks, it felt like we were finding our rhythm again. Like we had carved out a second chance that might actually last this time.
We laughed. We dated. We held hands without shame, kissed without hesitation, and even dared to dream out loud about what the future might hold.
But love is never without its shadows. And ours had always been dark.
⸻
It started with something small.
We were at a mutual friend's birthday dinner, seated at a long table in a noisy restaurant in Victoria Island. Amara looked radiant, laughing with old acquaintances, her hand occasionally brushing mine under the table. For most of the night, everything was perfect.
Then someone—I don't even remember who—brought up a trip we had taken years ago, back when we were still together.
"Daniel, remember when you and Amara fought all the way to Ibadan?" someone teased. "We were sure you two would break up on the expressway!"
Laughter rippled around the table, but I felt Amara stiffen beside me. Her smile faltered, her grip on her glass tightening.
I tried to brush it off with a chuckle. "Yeah, we were young and stupid. Long drive, bad mood. It happens."
But I could feel the weight of her silence beside me.
On the drive home, she was quiet, her gaze fixed on the passing streetlights.
"What's wrong?" I asked gently.
"Nothing," she said too quickly.
"Amara…"
She sighed, finally turning to me. "It's just… that fight wasn't funny to me, Daniel. You humiliated me in front of everyone that day. Do you remember?"
The memory hit me like a punch. We had been on our way to Ibadan for a wedding. She had made a comment about me driving too fast, and I—stressed, impatient, foolish—had snapped back cruelly. Words I shouldn't have said. Words that still made me ashamed.
"I remember," I admitted quietly. "And I regret it. Every bit of it."
Her jaw tightened. "It wasn't just that one time. You used to shut me down a lot. Make me feel small. Like my feelings were… inconvenient."
Her words stung, not because they weren't true, but because they were.
"I was wrong," I said, my hands tightening on the wheel. "I thought keeping quiet or brushing things off was better than fighting, but it only pushed you away. I see that now."
She stared out the window again. "I just don't want us to slip back into that. I can't go through it again, Daniel. I won't."
The car was silent for a long time after that.
⸻
The next few days were tense. Not outright hostile, but a cautious distance settled between us. Texts were shorter. Calls were more clipped.
I hated it.
I wanted to shake the ghosts of our past off, to prove to her—and to myself—that we weren't the same people anymore. But it wasn't that simple. Old wounds don't heal just because you wish them to. They linger, tender and raw, waiting for the slightest touch to reopen them.
⸻
A week later, the real crack appeared.
Amara had invited me to dinner at her place. She cooked pepper soup, the kind she knew I loved, and we tried to slip back into our easy banter. For a while, it worked.
Then, mid-conversation, she mentioned an old colleague of mine—Chiamaka.
"She reached out to me on LinkedIn," Amara said casually. "Said she might need a designer for a project. Funny coincidence, right?"
The name made me stiffen. Not because I still had feelings for Chiamaka—I didn't. But because during the last stretch of our relationship years ago, Amara had suspected I was a little too close to her. It had been nothing more than professional camaraderie, but jealousy had flared, and it had been one of many sparks that fueled our fights.
I forced a smile. "Yeah, small world."
But Amara caught the hesitation. "Why do you look uncomfortable?"
"I don't," I said quickly. Too quickly.
Her eyes narrowed. "Daniel, please. I know that look."
I sighed. "It's nothing. I just… didn't expect her to pop back into our lives, that's all."
"Or maybe you don't want me talking to her?" Amara pressed.
"It's not that," I said, my voice rising despite myself. "I just know how you felt about her before, and I don't want us digging up old drama for no reason."
Her expression hardened. "So it's my fault, then? I'm the jealous, dramatic one?"
"That's not what I said."
"But that's what you meant."
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. She crossed her arms, her eyes shining with a hurt I recognized all too well.
"You promised me, Daniel," she said quietly. "You promised no more shutting me out. No more making me feel like my feelings don't matter."
"I'm not shutting you out," I insisted. "I just don't want us to drown in the past."
"But the past is still here," she shot back. "It's still part of us. Pretending it isn't doesn't make it go away."
Her words cut deep because they were true. I wanted so badly to move forward that I was terrified of looking back. But ignoring her pain wasn't the answer.
I reached for her hand, but she pulled away.
"Amara…" My voice broke. "I don't want to lose you again."
She looked at me, her expression torn between love and fear. "Then prove to me you've changed, Daniel. Don't just say it. Show me."
⸻
That night, I left her apartment with my heart heavy.
I lay awake for hours, replaying every word, every expression, every wound we had reopened. And for the first time since we got back together, I wondered if love would be enough to carry us through the weight of our history.
Because love had never been the problem. We had always loved each other. Passionately, fiercely. But passion alone couldn't heal scars.
We needed something deeper this time. Something stronger.
And I wasn't sure if we were ready to find it.