I rebuilt my days one hour at a time.
There was no sudden motivation, no dramatic shift—just a decision to sit down when everything in me wanted to disappear. I woke earlier. Read slower. Took notes like my future depended on them.
Because it did.
The library became my refuge. The silence there didn't judge me or demand explanations. I studied until my head hurt, then studied some more, repeating things out loud under my breath until they stuck.
I wasn't trying to prove anything.
I was trying to survive.
I told Lia about Daniel during one of our breaks, seated under a tree near the faculty building. She listened quietly, which was rare for her.
"He went through your phone?" she said finally.
I nodded. "And then tried to make me feel guilty for being upset about it."
Her face hardened. "That's not love, Morayo. That's control."
"I know," I whispered. "I just didn't want to admit it."
She sighed and leaned her head on my shoulder. "I hate that we're both learning hard lessons at the same time."
"At least we're learning," I said.
She laughed softly. "True. Old us would've been crying over men and skipping lectures."
I smiled. "I still cry. I just don't skip lectures anymore."
That earned a small laugh from both of us.
Daniel hadn't reached out again. Part of me missed the familiarity. Another part of me felt lighter without the constant tension.
I poured that energy into school—group discussions, revision sessions,sessions, and questions in class even when my voice trembled.
Every correct answer felt like a small victory.
I wasn't healed.
But I was trying.
And for the first time, trying felt like enough.