Fractures
The days that followed Mara's withdrawal were the kind that left a residue in the bones, a sense that the world had shifted subtly but irreversibly. Ayo noticed it first in the small things: the way his shirt hung unevenly from his shoulder, the way the floor creaked a little too loudly beneath his bare feet, the faint, sour smell of rain in the corners of his apartment. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had. The ordinary had begun to feel unstable, as though the quiet routines of life were merely a fragile cover for something jagged and raw lurking underneath.
He woke that morning with a dull ache pressed against his chest. Sleep had been restless, interrupted by half-formed dreams in which Mara stood in the doorway of their apartment, accusing him without words, staring through him as if she could see every lie he had ever told. He had tried to wake himself, tried to shake the images away, but they lingered stubbornly, like shadows that refused to dissipate in the light. Even his sister Sade's gentle voice calling to him from the kitchen could not anchor him in reality. He lay for a long time, listening to the sound of rain sliding against the corrugated roof, and thought bitterly that the world was too loud and too quiet at the same time.
At work, he moved with the same mechanical precision as before, filing documents, stamping forms, and shifting papers from one side of the desk to the other. But everything felt heavier. Each folder he touched seemed to vibrate slightly under his fingers, as if it were aware of the weight pressing down on him. His colleagues laughed and joked as usual, their voices light, detached, and utterly unaware that Ayo's mind was elsewhere. Kunle leaned over and nudged him, making some careless comment about deadlines or honesty, and Ayo smiled without truly seeing him. He realized with a quiet pang that the lies he had told himself to get through the day—the "I'm fine," the "I'm busy," the "It's nothing"—were no longer sufficient. Something deeper had shifted, something he could not ignore.
By midday, the office seemed oppressive, the air thick with the smell of paper and ink and the faint hint of old coffee. Ayo's phone vibrated silently in his pocket, and he felt a spark of fear before he even looked at it. It was Mara, though she did not send a message—just her name, appearing on the screen like a reminder of all the things he had failed to say. He stared at it for a long time, and his hand trembled slightly as he reached to reject the call. He told himself that he needed distance, that he could not answer her now, and yet even as he silenced the phone, he could feel the weight of her presence pressing against his thoughts.
When he finally left the office, the city had taken on a different hue. Rain drizzled across the streets, turning the potholes into shallow pools that reflected the grey, unrelenting sky. Motorcycles swished past, splashing water onto the pavement. Street vendors shouted over one another, but their words seemed muffled, irrelevant. Ayo walked slowly, deliberately, as if moving too quickly would cause the fragile layers of his carefully constructed self to crumble. He passed the corner where children played in puddles, their laughter piercingly bright against the muted world around him. He stopped and watched for a long moment, feeling a strange envy for the simplicity in their joy. They had no lies, or at least no lies heavy enough to leave marks that throbbed quietly under the skin.
By the time he reached his apartment, the rain had intensified, drumming a steady rhythm against the tin roof. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, removing his wet shoes and setting them aside with deliberate care. The room smelled of damp and dust, and yet it felt oddly familiar, a small comfort amid the chaos in his head. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the bare walls and thinking about Mara, about Sade, about the countless minor deceits that had accumulated into a weight pressing relentlessly on his chest. He realized that he had been living with fractures for years, subtle cracks in his life that he had ignored, brushed aside with convenience, with excuses, with small lies that now felt like poison under his skin.
Ayo lit a lamp, the pale glow casting long shadows across the room, and reached for his notebook, the one he kept tucked under his mattress. He wrote carefully, slowly, each word a small effort to reach the parts of himself he had kept hidden. The page filled with fragments of thoughts he could not speak aloud: confessions about Mara, about fear, about the distance he had placed between himself and everyone he cared for. He paused often, pressing the pen against the paper, feeling the weight of each unspoken truth. For the first time, he realized that lying had become more than habit—it had become armor. And armor, he now understood, could also imprison.
Hours passed. The rain outside softened into a quiet drizzle, the city exhaling slowly after the day's fury. Ayo's hand ached from writing, but the ache was different now. It was the ache of truth pressing through the surface, a slow, deliberate reminder that silence could no longer protect him. He thought about the moments he had lied, the promises he had avoided, and the people he had hurt—not maliciously, but out of fear, laziness, or the desperate desire to avoid conflict. Each memory felt like a fissure opening underfoot, fragile and dangerous.
By midnight, exhaustion claimed him, but sleep offered no release. In the dark, he felt the fractures spread further, reaching into every part of himself. He thought of Mara and how she had tried to pierce through his lies, how she had seen the truths he refused to acknowledge. He thought of Sade, of the people who trusted him despite knowing only fragments of the whole. And he understood, with a quiet, undeniable clarity, that the scars were no longer just marks—they were warnings. They demanded attention, and ignoring them would not make them disappear.
Ayo lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and felt the first stirrings of a decision. He did not yet know how he would confront the fractures in his life, or whether he had the courage to face the truths that had been buried beneath years of convenience, avoidance, and fear. But he knew one thing: the fractures would not wait. They would not forgive. Every lie, every silence, every evasion had left a mark, and those marks were now demanding recognition.
As he closed his eyes, the rain softened further, leaving only the faintest whisper against the tin roof. Ayo realized that the only way forward was through the fractures, not around them. And though the path was uncertain, and though fear still lingered like a shadow, he understood that the moment to confront the truth—his truth, unvarnished and raw—was coming, whether he was ready or not.