Trust is fragile.
It doesn't matter how much you love someone—if trust wavers, the foundation shakes. And after everything Amara and I had been through, trust was the one thing we couldn't afford to lose again.
⸻
It started with a phone call.
I was at Amara's apartment one evening, helping her arrange boxes of supplies for her next outreach project. My phone buzzed on the table, and without thinking, I glanced at it.
Nkechi.
The sight of her name made my stomach twist.
Amara saw it too. Her hand paused mid-air as she set down a box. Her eyes flicked to mine, sharp, unreadable.
"Aren't you going to answer?" she asked, her tone too casual.
I hesitated. "It's nothing. Probably work-related."
Her brow arched. "Since when does Nkechi have anything to do with your work?"
The air thickened. My chest tightened. I could feel the ground shifting beneath me.
"She's just an old friend," I said quickly. "I'll call her back later."
Amara's gaze lingered on me for a moment before she nodded, but the silence that followed was heavy.
⸻
That night, long after she fell asleep, I stepped into the hallway and called back.
Nkechi's voice came through, warm but cautious. "Daniel. Sorry for the late call. I just… I wanted to clear the air after running into you the other day. No hard feelings, okay?"
"Of course," I said, keeping my voice low. "I appreciate that."
She hesitated. "And if you ever want to catch up, just as friends, let me know. I'm not looking to complicate anything."
I ended the call quickly, polite but firm. "Thanks, but I think it's best we keep some distance."
Still, when I slipped back into bed beside Amara, guilt gnawed at me—not because I had done anything wrong, but because I knew how easily doubt could poison trust.
⸻
The next morning, Amara was quiet. Too quiet.
Over breakfast, she finally asked, "Did you call her back?"
I froze, then nodded. "Yes. She just wanted to clear the air. That's all."
"And?"
"And nothing. I told her it's best we keep our distance."
She studied me, her eyes searching for cracks. "You didn't have to hide it, Daniel. That's what worries me."
Her words stung, because she was right. Transparency mattered more than anything now.
"You're right," I said softly. "I should've told you immediately. I'm sorry."
She sighed, rubbing her temples. "I want to trust you. But trust isn't just about not lying. It's about not giving reasons to doubt in the first place."
Her honesty cut deep.
⸻
The tension simmered for days.
Every time my phone buzzed, I caught her glancing at it. Not accusing, but wary. And every time, I felt the weight of proving myself all over again.
I knew she wasn't insecure by nature. This was about history—about the wounds I had left behind the first time, and the fear that they might reopen.
So I made a choice: full transparency.
When messages came in, I showed her without being asked. When I had late meetings, I sent her my location, unprompted. Not because she demanded it, but because I wanted her to feel secure.
At first, she resisted. "Daniel, you don't have to prove yourself like this."
"Yes, I do," I said gently. "Not forever. Just until trust feels like breathing again."
She looked at me then, her eyes softening. "You're different."
"I'm trying to be."
⸻
But the true test came not from me, but from her.
One Saturday, Amara told me she was meeting Tunde—the ex we'd run into at the mall.
"Why?" I asked, unable to hide the edge in my voice.
"He reached out," she said calmly. "He's organizing a fundraiser and wanted my input. It's strictly professional."
I swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed no. The thought of her sitting across from him, laughing at his jokes, remembering old times—it tore at me.
But I remembered Kunle's words: Trust is choosing each other, even when it's hard.
"Okay," I said finally, though my voice was tight. "I trust you."
She studied me, clearly surprised. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure," I said, even though my stomach twisted.
⸻
The hours she was gone felt endless.
I distracted myself with work, the gym, anything to avoid obsessively checking the clock. But when she finally texted—On my way home—relief flooded me so strongly I had to sit down.
When she walked into my apartment that evening, I searched her face for clues.
"How was it?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
"Fine," she said simply. "Strictly business, like I said."
I nodded, forcing a smile. "Good."
She stepped closer, her eyes locking on mine. "You really did trust me, didn't you?"
"Yes," I admitted quietly. "Even though it wasn't easy."
She touched my face gently, her voice soft. "That means more to me than you know."
And for the first time, I felt the balance shift. It wasn't just me proving myself anymore—it was both of us, slowly building something stronger than before.
⸻
That night, as we lay together, Amara whispered, "Daniel, I think we might actually make it this time."
I tightened my arms around her, my heart steady. "We will. Because this time, we're not just in love. We're in trust."
And for the first time since we found our way back to each other, I truly believed it.