Daniel called the next day.
"Why didn't you come by?" he asked, his tone sharp instead of curious.
"You asked for space," I said carefully.
A scoff. "I didn't ask you to disappear."
There it was—that familiar tightening in my chest.
No matter what I did, it was always wrong.
"I went out," I added quietly.
"With who?" His voice hardened.
"A friend," I said, which wasn't a lie. Not entirely.
Silence stretched between us, heavy and accusing.
"You've changed, Morayo," he finally said.
"University is doing something to you. You're not the girl I met."
I wanted to ask him which girl he meant—the quiet one? The obedient one? The one who swallowed everything just to keep peace?
Instead, I said, "People grow."
"And some people forget themselves," he snapped.
The call ended without resolution. No apology. No reassurance. Just tension hanging like smoke.
I sat there afterward, realizing something painful and undeniable:
I felt more emotionally safe with a man I barely knew than with the one who was supposed to love me.