If there was one thing I learned quickly, it was that love doesn't exist in a vacuum.
It would have been easier if it were just Amara and me—our history, our feelings, our scars. But the world has a way of sticking its fingers into what you're trying to protect, pulling, twisting, reminding you that love is never just between two people.
There are always outside forces.
⸻
The first came in the form of her mother.
Mrs. Okafor was never my biggest fan. She had tolerated me years ago when Amara and I were together, but I always sensed her disapproval lurking beneath polite smiles. I was too young, too restless, too distracted, she had once told Amara. Not the kind of man to build a stable future.
So when Amara mentioned over lunch that she'd told her mother about us rekindling, my stomach tightened.
"And?" I asked cautiously, stirring my spoon through the jollof rice I hadn't touched.
"And she wasn't thrilled," Amara admitted, giving me a rueful smile. "She said, 'Amara, you don't stitch together torn fabric. You buy new cloth.'"
The words stung more than I cared to admit. "Wow."
"She's protective," Amara said quickly, reaching across the table to touch my hand. "She saw what our breakup did to me. She doesn't want me to go through that again."
"I get it," I said, though the knot in my chest didn't ease. "But do you want this? Because that's what matters to me."
Her fingers tightened around mine. "I do, Daniel. I told her that. I told her this is my choice."
Her conviction steadied me, but her mother's words lingered long after. Torn fabric. Broken trust. Could love really mend what had once ripped apart?
⸻
The second outside force came in the form of an unexpected encounter.
I was leaving a client's office in Lekki one evening when I heard someone call my name.
"Daniel?"
I turned, and there she was—Nkechi. My ex from after Amara, the one I had tried (and failed) to build something with in the ruins of my heartbreak.
She smiled politely, though surprise flickered in her eyes. "Wow, it's been a while."
"It has," I agreed, awkwardness settling over me like a heavy coat.
We exchanged pleasantries, the kind you do with someone who once knew you intimately but is now just a stranger with shared memories. She was doing well, working with a multinational, glowing with the kind of confidence that comes from thriving on your own.
Then she asked the question I dreaded.
"So… are you seeing anyone?"
For a moment, I hesitated. Not because I didn't want to claim Amara—God knows I did—but because I knew how complicated it sounded. How people might judge.
"Yes," I said finally. "I'm with Amara."
Her brows lifted. "Amara? As in… Amara?"
"The one and only," I said, forcing a smile.
She gave a short laugh, shaking her head. "Well. I didn't see that coming."
Her tone wasn't cruel, but there was something in it—a mix of surprise and disbelief—that followed me long after we parted ways.
And when I told Amara about the encounter later, she went quiet.
"She asked if you're seeing anyone?" Amara said slowly. "Do you think she still has feelings for you?"
"No," I said quickly. "It wasn't like that. It was just… awkward."
But I could see the flicker of doubt in her eyes, the ghost of old insecurities reawakened.
⸻
The third outside force came in the form of my work.
I had landed a major project with an advertising firm, one that demanded long hours and endless revisions. The kind of project that could push my career forward in huge ways.
But it also meant late nights, missed calls, and canceled plans.
One evening, I arrived at Amara's apartment past 10 p.m., drained but eager to see her. She opened the door in her pajamas, her expression cool.
"You forgot," she said flatly.
"Forgot what?" My heart sank.
"My presentation," she said. "I told you I was nervous and wanted you to be there. It started at 6."
I closed my eyes, guilt washing over me. "Amara, I'm so sorry. The client kept me—"
"It's always the client," she snapped. "Always work. I get that you're ambitious, Daniel, but where do I fit in?"
Her voice broke on the last word, and it cut deeper than any argument.
I stepped closer, reaching for her hand. "You fit in here," I said, pressing her palm against my chest. "You fit everywhere, Amara. I screwed up tonight, but don't ever doubt that you're my priority."
Her eyes glistened, her body tense. Slowly, she exhaled, pulling her hand back. "I want to believe that. I really do."
The doubt in her tone terrified me more than anything.
⸻
And then, just when I thought the outside pressures couldn't mount higher, her ex resurfaced.
It was a Saturday afternoon. We were at the mall, strolling hand in hand, when a tall, broad-shouldered man walked up to us with a confident smile.
"Amara," he said warmly. "It's been a while."
She stiffened beside me. "Tunde," she replied, her tone clipped.
I didn't need to be told who he was. I could feel it in the way she avoided his gaze, in the forced politeness of her voice. The man she had dated after me. The man she had once told me was "serious," the one her mother had quietly approved of.
Tunde's eyes flicked to me, then back to her. "Didn't expect to see you here. You look… happy."
"Thank you," she said quickly. "This is Daniel."
The smile he gave me was the kind men give other men when they think they have the upper hand. "Ah, Daniel. I've heard the name."
I forced a polite nod, but my chest burned.
The conversation was brief, mercifully so, but the shadow it cast lingered long after he walked away.
"You okay?" I asked her as we headed to the car.
"I'm fine," she said, too quickly.
But her silence on the drive home told me she wasn't. And the insecurity gnawed at me too.
⸻
That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the weight of it all pressed down on me.
Her mother's doubts. My ex's reappearance. Her ex's shadow. My work pulling me away.
Love might have brought us back together, but would it be strong enough to withstand the world pressing against us?
Because sometimes, it isn't the fights between two people that break them apart.
It's everything—and everyone—around them.