When love cracks open, silence becomes louder than words.
The day after Amara's call, I sat across from her in a quiet café tucked away in Ikoyi. She had chosen the place deliberately, I think—neutral ground, far from the memories that clung to our favorite spots.
She wore a cream blouse and dark jeans, her hair pulled back. No makeup, no jewelry, just Amara stripped down to the essentials. She looked beautiful, but also exhausted.
For a long time, we just sat there, stirring drinks neither of us touched.
Finally, she broke the silence.
"Daniel, I've been thinking."
My chest tightened. "About us?"
"Yes. About everything." She sighed, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. "I realized I jumped into this because I missed you. Because the moment I saw you again, all those feelings came rushing back. But maybe I didn't stop to ask if I was ready. Or if you were."
Her words sliced deep, but I forced myself to stay quiet, to let her speak.
"Seeing you at my event—or rather, not seeing you—brought back memories I thought I'd buried. The waiting. The disappointment. The feeling that I wasn't a priority." Her eyes glistened, but she blinked quickly. "And I can't live like that again, Daniel. I won't."
"I know," I whispered. "And you shouldn't have to."
Her eyes flicked to mine, surprised at my lack of defense.
I swallowed hard. "You're right. I broke promises before. I let my pride, my work, my fears get in the way. And even now, I slipped back into old patterns. I can't expect you to ignore that."
Silence stretched, heavy but not hostile this time.
Finally, she said, "So what do we do?"
I let out a shaky breath. "Maybe we need space. Real space. Time to figure out what we want, apart from each other. To ask if we're choosing this because it's love—or because it's familiar."
Her lips trembled, but she nodded slowly. "I was thinking the same thing."
The words hurt like hell, but also felt necessary.
"Not forever," I added quickly. "Just… time to reflect. To heal. To be sure."
"Okay," she whispered.
And just like that, we agreed to step back.
⸻
The days that followed were some of the loneliest of my life.
I tried to fill them with routine—workouts at the gym, long hours at the office, dinners with Kunle. But no matter how I filled my schedule, the emptiness remained.
Nights were the worst. Lying in bed, I found myself replaying every moment with Amara, every word, every kiss, every fight. Asking myself if I was doomed to repeat the same mistakes, or if I truly had it in me to change.
Reflection has a way of stripping you bare.
I realized how much of my life had been defined by ambition—by the relentless drive to prove myself in my career. And while ambition wasn't bad, I had let it consume me, often at the expense of the people who mattered most.
With Amara, that had meant broken promises, missed moments, love that took second place to deadlines.
And yet, when I thought about the future, she was the only constant. Every dream I had—every vision of success—felt empty without her beside me.
So I asked myself the hardest question: If I had to choose between my work and Amara, who would I choose?
The answer terrified me, because it was her. Every time, it was her.
⸻
Meanwhile, I heard little from her.
Occasional polite texts: Hope you're well. Take care of yourself. Nothing more.
I didn't push. She needed her space as much as I needed mine. But every buzz of my phone made my heart leap, hoping it was more.
One evening, I drove past her street without meaning to. Her lights were on, shadows moving against the curtains. I wondered what she was doing. If she was thinking of me. If she missed me as much as I missed her.
I didn't stop. I couldn't.
⸻
It was Kunle who finally gave me the push I needed.
We were sitting at the bar again, me nursing a drink I barely touched.
"You've been like a ghost," he said. "Work, gym, sleep. Rinse and repeat. What's your plan, Daniel?"
I shrugged. "Space. Reflection."
He gave me a look. "Reflection is good. But too much reflection turns into regret. You don't want to wake up one day and realize you let her slip away because you were too busy 'thinking.'"
His words hit hard.
"What if I haven't changed?" I asked quietly. "What if I try again and I fail her again?"
Kunle leaned in, his voice firm. "Then you'll fail trying. But at least you'll know you gave it everything. That's what love is, Daniel. Not perfection. Not guarantees. It's choosing each other, over and over, even when it's hard."
I sat with his words long after I left the bar.
⸻
That night, I pulled out my sketchbook—the one I had used to draw Amara at the beach. I flipped to a blank page and began to draw her again, from memory this time.
Her smile. Her eyes. The curve of her hands when she held mine.
When I finished, I stared at the image, my chest tight.
Reflection had shown me the truth: I loved her more than my pride, more than my work, more than my fear of failure.
And if I didn't fight for her, I would lose the best thing I'd ever had.
⸻
The next morning, I sent her a message.
Me: Can we meet? No pressure. Just talk.
For hours, there was no reply. My stomach churned, my mind racing. Then, finally:
Amara: Okay. Tomorrow evening. Our old spot.
Our old spot. The café where we had spent countless afternoons in university, planning dreams too big for our small pockets. Where we had fallen in love over cups of coffee and plates of meat pie.
The choice of place felt deliberate. A chance to decide whether our story still had pages left—or whether it ended there.
And as I sat there, phone in hand, I knew one thing for certain:
This time, I wouldn't just tell her I had changed.
I would show her.