That night, I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the museum in fragments.
Femi's voice explaining history like it mattered.
The way he watched me watch the art.
How he never once touched me again after that brief brush—like he was giving me room to choose.
That unsettled me more than anything.
Daniel had never given me room. He claimed space loudly, expectations, rules, opinions. Love, to him, was something you guarded aggressively, like property.
And Femi… felt like permission.
The thought made my chest tighten with guilt.
I rolled over and checked my phone. No message from Daniel. Still.
Space, he had said.
As if love could be put on pause without consequences.
I told myself I was just tired. That the date meant nothing more than conversation and art and politeness.
But my mind wouldn't stop asking dangerous questions.
When was the last time someone made you feel seen without demanding anything in return?