Love is more than feelings.
It's a decision. A fight.
And I was done sitting on the sidelines, letting fear and work and the past dictate the terms of my heart.
⸻
The next evening, I arrived at our old café early. Too early. I sat at the corner table, the one by the window where we used to argue about who made better suya—her Enugu street vendor or mine from Lagos.
The memories were sharp, almost overwhelming. I half-expected my younger self to walk in, carefree and clueless, holding Amara's hand like the world was ours.
But the man sitting here now wasn't that boy. He'd been burned, humbled, broken, and was slowly learning what real love required.
When Amara finally walked in, my breath caught. She wore a simple navy dress, her braids tied back. No pretense, no walls—just her, raw and real.
She slid into the seat across from me, her eyes searching mine. "You're early."
"I didn't want to risk being late," I said, and it came out rougher than I intended.
Her lips twitched, almost a smile, but she held it back. "So. Why did you want to meet?"
I took a deep breath. "Because I've been reflecting. And I realized something. I love you, Amara. Not just in the easy, sweet, romantic ways. I love you in the hard ways too. In the ways that require sacrifice, consistency, showing up even when it's inconvenient. I didn't get that before. But I do now."
Her eyes softened, but she stayed quiet.
I leaned forward, my hands flat on the table. "I don't want to lose you again. But I also don't expect you to just believe me because I'm saying the right words. I know I have to prove it. With actions. With time. With presence."
Silence stretched between us. I could hear the clink of cups behind the counter, the low hum of other conversations.
Finally, Amara said, "Daniel… I want to believe you. God, I want to. But my heart still remembers the pain. The broken promises. The nights I cried myself to sleep."
Her voice trembled, and it nearly broke me.
"I know," I whispered. "And I can't erase the past. But I can write a different future. Let me show you."
She looked at me for a long time, then asked quietly, "And what if you fail again?"
The question cut deep, but this time I didn't flinch. "Then I'll fail trying. But I won't walk away. I won't run. I'll keep choosing you, every day, as long as you'll let me."
For the first time in weeks, her tears weren't angry—they were soft, uncertain, but hopeful.
⸻
The following days became a test of my resolve.
I started with small things.
When she mentioned she had an early meeting, I surprised her with breakfast delivered to her office. Not flashy, not extravagant—just her favorite pastries and a note that said, Good luck today. Proud of you.
When she had a long week, I canceled a client dinner to cook dinner for her instead. Spaghetti and sauce, a little burnt on the edges, but the look in her eyes when I handed her the plate made it worth it.
When she spoke, I listened. Really listened—not just waiting for my turn to reply.
Slowly, I saw the walls begin to crack.
She laughed more. Called me more. Began to let her guard down.
But there were still moments when fear reared its head.
Like the evening she asked, "How do I know work won't always come first?"
I didn't give her a speech. I handed her my phone, unlocked, with my schedule for the week. Meetings, deadlines, everything.
"Pick any time you need me," I told her. "And I'll be there. No excuses."
She stared at me, startled. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious."
And when she picked Friday evening for a casual dinner date, I declined a client's networking event without hesitation.
It felt like a small step to me, but to her, it was everything.
⸻
The true test, though, came unexpectedly.
One afternoon, my firm called—an urgent meeting with an international client, rescheduled at the last minute. It was the same evening as Amara's charity fundraiser, an event she had been organizing for months.
The old Daniel would have chosen work. The client was high-profile, the kind of deal that could push my career to the next level.
But as I stood there, phone in hand, I thought about her face that night I missed her presentation. The disappointment. The loneliness.
And I made my choice.
"I can't make it," I told my boss. "I have a commitment."
He wasn't happy, but I didn't care.
That night, I sat in the front row of Amara's fundraiser, clapping louder than anyone when she walked on stage.
Her eyes found mine across the room, and the look she gave me—equal parts relief, pride, and love—made every sacrifice worth it.
Afterward, as we stood together under the string lights outside, she whispered, "You came."
"Of course I came," I said. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
She looked at me for a long moment, then leaned in and kissed me. Slow, tender, full of unspoken forgiveness.
⸻
That night, lying in her arms, I realized something.
Fighting for love isn't about grand gestures. It's about consistency. About showing up when it matters, even in the small things. About proving, day by day, that love isn't just a feeling—it's a choice.
And I was ready to keep choosing her.
Over and over.