I lasted four days before I called him.
Four days of replaying conversations that no longer existed. Four days of wondering if silence could feel this loud. I told myself it didn't matter—that his absence was reasonable, expected even. My life had become complicated overnight. I was still someone's girlfriend. Still someone's daughter. Still trying to stand upright inside the wreckage.
But none of that stopped my fingers from hovering over his name.
When the call connected, my heart thudded so hard I almost hung up.
"Morayo," he said, after a brief pause. Not surprised. Just… present.
"Hi," I replied. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to. "I hope I'm not calling at a bad time."
"You're not," he said. "I'm glad you reached out."
The relief that washed through me was immediate—and embarrassing.
We sat in silence for a moment, the kind that wasn't awkward but still heavy with everything unsaid.
"I wanted to check in," I said finally. "Things have been… a lot."
"I imagined they might be," he replied gently. "How are you holding up?"
No assumptions. No pressure. Just a question.
"I don't know," I admitted. "Some moments I'm fine. Other moments, I feel like I'm standing in the wrong version of my life."
He exhaled softly. "That sounds disorienting."
"It is."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"I noticed you hadn't reached out," I said carefully. "I wasn't sure if that was intentional."
"It was," he said. Honest. Calm. "But not for the reason you might think."
I swallowed.
"I didn't hear anything," he continued, before I could speak. "And I didn't assume anything. My distance wasn't about rumors or appearances."
"Then why?" I asked.
"Because," he said slowly, "you are already carrying enough. I didn't want to become another weight."
The words settled heavily in my chest.
"I know what it looks like," he went on. "An older man. A complicated moment. A young woman already navigating expectations that aren't her own. I didn't want my presence to create confusion or obligation."
I leaned back against the pillow, my throat tight.
"So you just… disappeared," I said softly.
"I stepped back," he corrected. "There's a difference."
I closed my eyes.
"I didn't want to cross a line you hadn't consciously chosen to approach," he added. "And I didn't want to ask for space in your life you hadn't offered."
Something in me fractured at that.
"You could have asked how I was," I said, not accusing. Just honest.
"I wanted to," he replied. "Every day."
That was the moment it became hard to breathe.
"I didn't," he continued, "because I care enough to be careful."
Careful.
Daniel had wanted reassurance.
My parents had wanted compliance.
Femi wanted consent—emotional, moral, deliberate.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I confessed. "Or what I'm supposed to want."
"You don't need to know yet," he said. "Confusion isn't failure. It's information."
I let out a shaky breath. "You make everything sound so… reasonable."
He smiled—I could hear it in his voice. "That's because I'm not inside it. You are."
Another pause.
"I won't disappear," he said quietly. "But I won't pull you either. Whatever direction you move in...I want it to be because it's yours."
When the call ended, I stared at my phone for a long time.
He hadn't promised me anything.
He hadn't claimed me.
He hadn't asked me to choose.
And yet, somehow, he had made the weight of every other expectation feel heavier by comparison.
I lay back and let the confusion wash over me—my parents' voices, Daniel's demands, and the future pressing in from all sides.
For the first time, I realized the most dangerous thing about Femi Caldwell wasn't his age or his world or his restraint.
It was that he gave me space-and trusted me not to disappear inside it.
And I didn't know what to do with that yet.