It all started on a Friday.
Fatima remembered that night clearly—not because it was extraordinary, but because it felt easy. She was out with her friends, laughing more than usual, letting the week slip off her shoulders. She hadn't planned on meeting anyone. Love wasn't something she was looking for.
Then she saw Darren.
He had a way of taking up space without trying. Confident, relaxed, surrounded by his friends, already holding a drink. When their eyes met, he smiled like he already knew her. That smile stayed with her long after the night ended.
They talked. Then they talked some more.
He was charming in a careless way—funny, spontaneous, full of stories. He made her feel seen in the moment, like nothing else mattered. By the end of the night, Fatima felt something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Excitement.
From the beginning, everything felt intense. The messages came quickly. The calls lasted hours. When they were together, she felt chosen. She ignored the little things because love was loud back then—louder than doubt.
She fell hard. And she fell fast.
At first, she didn't notice the patterns. Or maybe she did—but love convinced her they weren't important.
Darren loved being out. Loved the boys. Loved the drinking. There was always another night, another plan that didn't include her. When she suggested spending time together, he agreed—but only if she planned it.
And she always did.
Fatima planned the dates. Picked the places. Checked his availability. She waited for effort that came inconsistently, like it was a favour instead of a choice. Still, she told herself it was normal. Everyone loved differently, right?
The first lie hurt—but she forgave it.
The first time she heard about another girl, she cried alone. Darren denied it. Promised her it meant nothing. Promised her it would stop. And because she loved him, she believed him.
Or at least, she wanted to.
The cheating didn't come all at once. It came in fragments. Rumours. Screenshots she didn't want to see. Stories that never matched. Darren always had an explanation. And Fatima always had a reason to stay.
She protected him.
Even when her chest felt heavy. Even when she cried herself to sleep. Even when she saw the signs she pretended not to see.
Only her friends knew the truth.
They saw the tears. Heard the late-night phone calls. Watched her defend a man who kept hurting her. They begged her to leave, but Fatima wasn't ready. Love made her loyal to her own pain.
At home, she smiled. She said everything was fine.
Only her mother noticed the change—the quiet sadness, the way Fatima lost herself piece by piece.
But it wasn't time yet. The family didn't know. Not then.
Fatima stayed because she remembered the beginning. Because she remembered the Friday night where love felt simple. Because she believed if she loved him enough, he would change.
But love alone wasn't fixing anything.
Darren kept choosing his friends. The drinking. The nights out. The freedom. And Fatima kept choosing him.
By the time she realised the pattern, she was already too deep.
She didn't fall out of love all at once.
She cried her way there.
And looking back now, Fatima understood something she couldn't admit back then:
She didn't ignore the signs.
She saw them.
She just loved him more than she loved herself