Every love story has its cracks.
Ours had been widening for weeks—small fissures born of old wounds, outside pressures, and unspoken fears. We kept trying to plaster over them with laughter, apologies, kisses that burned like promises. But cracks don't disappear just because you cover them. They wait. They spread.
And one night, they split wide open.
⸻
It was a Thursday evening. I had promised Amara I'd meet her at her office's cocktail mixer, a semi-formal event where she was set to give a short speech about a project she had led. She was nervous about it, and I had sworn I would be there.
But deadlines and client calls swallowed me whole that day. By the time I looked at the clock, it was almost 8 p.m.—the event had started at 6.
I raced across town, traffic mocking me at every turn. When I finally arrived, the crowd was already dispersing. People were laughing, congratulating Amara as they filtered out. She stood near the back, clutching a nearly empty glass of champagne, her smile tight.
When she saw me, her eyes hardened.
"Daniel."
"Amara, I'm so sorry. The client—"
Her laugh was sharp. "Of course. The client."
I reached for her arm, but she stepped back. "I rushed here as soon as I could. I wanted to—"
"You wanted to what?" she snapped, her voice rising. Heads turned, but she didn't care. "To show up after it was all over? To pretend you were here when I needed you? You promised, Daniel. You promised me this time would be different."
The words hit me like blows, each sharper than the last. "I am different. I'm trying—"
"Trying isn't enough!" she cut in, her eyes glistening. "Do you know what it felt like to look around that room and not see you? To give my speech, scanning the crowd, hoping—and realizing you weren't there? Again?"
Her voice cracked, and something inside me cracked too.
"I made a mistake," I said, my voice low, trembling. "But don't tell me I don't care. Don't tell me I'm not fighting for this."
She shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. "It feels like I'm fighting alone. Like I always have."
The words lodged in my chest like knives. "That's not fair, Amara. You know how much you mean to me. You know I—"
"Do I?" she demanded. "Because right now, all I see is the same Daniel from before. The one who made promises with his mouth and broke them with his actions."
Silence fell between us, heavy and suffocating. People slipped past us, giving us space, pretending not to listen.
Finally, I whispered, "So what are you saying?"
She wiped at her tears, her jaw trembling. "I'm saying I don't know if I can do this again. I don't know if I can survive another heartbreak from you."
The words gutted me. I felt the ground tilt, my heart clawing at her even as her walls rose higher.
I wanted to beg. To fall to my knees and tell her she was my everything. But pride and pain tangled inside me, and all I managed was a hoarse, "Amara…"
She shook her head and turned away. "I need space, Daniel."
And just like that, she walked out of the building, leaving me standing there with the ruins of my second chance crumbling in my hands.
⸻
The days that followed were agony.
Her silence was worse than anger. She didn't block me, didn't lash out—just quiet distance. Short replies to my messages. Missed calls.
It felt like I was watching her slip away in slow motion, powerless to stop it.
Kunle noticed the change in me immediately.
"You look like death," he said one night at the bar, sipping his drink.
"She asked for space," I muttered, staring into my glass.
"Space isn't the end of the world," he said carefully. "Sometimes people need to breathe."
"But what if space turns into distance?" I whispered. "What if this is her way of walking away for good?"
Kunle sighed, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Then you fight. You show her you've changed. But Daniel, you can't just say it. You have to live it. Otherwise, she'll never believe you."
His words echoed in my head long after.
⸻
That weekend, I drove past Amara's apartment three times before finally convincing myself not to knock on her door. She had asked for space, and I had to respect that.
But every part of me ached to see her, to tell her I was sorry, to promise her that I could be better.
Instead, I poured myself into work. Late nights, endless revisions, anything to fill the silence she left behind. But no matter how hard I tried to distract myself, every time my phone buzzed, I hoped it was her.
Most of the time, it wasn't.
⸻
On Sunday night, she finally called.
Her voice was tired, quiet. "Daniel, can we meet tomorrow? Somewhere private."
My chest clenched. "Of course. Anywhere."
"Okay. I'll text you the place."
She hung up before I could say more.
I stared at my phone, fear and hope warring inside me.
Tomorrow, I would find out if this breaking point was the end… or if there was still a chance to rebuild from the wreckage.