The soft hum of the generator below her window had become her bedtime lullaby. It buzzed faintly beneath the sound of her aunt's sandals clicking against the tiled floor, followed by the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Somewhere in the compound, a baby was crying. Somewhere in her chest, so was she.
Ameera stared at her phone screen.
It was past 11pm. No new messages.
She opened her WhatsApp anyway. Her thumb hovered over Ejike's name. The last thing she sent him was still there — "I believe in you, always. Don't forget that."
That was two days ago.
Two days of silence. Two days of pretending to breathe fine. Two days of fighting the urge to call and ask, "Are you okay? Are we okay?"
But she didn't call.
Because if she did, she knew she'd fall all over again — and she was barely holding the pieces of herself together.
---
Her room was small, too neat to be honest. A desk stacked with books on business administration. A bed tucked against the wall. A wardrobe full of clothes she barely wore. Her aunt's rules were clear — "You're here to focus. Not for distractions. Especially not boys."
Ameera had nodded. Smiled. Played the good girl.
And every night, she broke that promise in her heart.
---
Ejike wasn't a mistake.
He wasn't a phase. Or a rebellion. Or someone she could pack away with old notebooks and forgotten dreams. He was the one person who looked at her like she was allowed to be soft. Like she could laugh too loud. Cry too much. Fail. Be tired. Be herself.
And even now — even through the silence — she felt his love like a heartbeat in her chest.
But that didn't make it easy.
---
Earlier that evening, her aunt had called her into the parlor.
"You're applying for the UniPort program, yes?" she asked, flipping through a file. Her tone was sharp, like every word was on a deadline.
Ameera nodded. "Yes, ma."
"Good. And you'll start ICAN this year too. I want you in Lagos for your NYSC next year. We're not wasting time."
Her cousin, Adesuwa, was on the couch, pretending not to listen. But Ameera saw the smirk.
"Understood?" her aunt pressed.
"Yes, ma."
That was the end of it.
Her life — drawn like a map by someone else's hand. School, service, law school, job, marriage — in that order, with no detours.
Ejike wasn't on the map.
He couldn't be.
---
She lay on her bed, earphones in, playing that song he once sent her — soft R&B, the kind she never used to like until his voice started living in every lyric.
> "Even if you fade, I'll remember your light..."
Ameera closed her eyes.
She could see him again — that last day at Freedom Park. The way his hand had trembled just before he touched hers. The way he laughed, not like someone with no job, no money, no security — but like someone who still had love to give.
He'd lied that day.
She knew it. He said he had plans, said something was "coming through." But his eyes gave him away. They always did.
She didn't call him out.
She just held his hand tighter.
---
Ameera hated this version of herself.
The one that checked her phone like a prayer. The one that smiled at family dinners while dying inside. The one that replayed voice notes at midnight just to feel less alone.
She wasn't weak. She came from women who survived storms with their heads high. Women who didn't cry over boys.
But Ejike wasn't just a boy.
He was a mirror.
When she spoke to him, she didn't have to pretend. She didn't have to be the "hope of the family" or the "bright future." She could just be Ameera. A girl with tired eyes, anxious thoughts, and a love that scared her more than her dreams did.
---
Her phone buzzed. Her heart skipped.
It was just MTN. Recharge and get 5MB free. She almost laughed. Almost cried.
She opened his chat again.
Typed:
> "Are you okay?"
Paused. Backspaced.
Typed:
> "I miss you."
Paused again. Then deleted it.
Instead, she recorded a voice note.
> "I'm trying not to reach out. Not because I don't care, but because I do too much. I want to fix everything for you, but I know I can't. And I know you're proud, so I stay quiet… but it hurts, Ejike. It really does."
She stared at it. Finger hovering over the send button.
Then deleted it.
---
Her door creaked.
It was her cousin.
Adesuwa leaned in with a raised brow. "You coming downstairs? We're watching that Nollywood thriller you like."
"I'm not in the mood."
"You okay?"
Ameera forced a smile. "Yeah. Just tired."
Adesuwa lingered, eyes softening. "Is it… that boy again?"
Silence.
Then a slow nod.
Adesuwa stepped inside. "You really love him, don't you?"
Ameera didn't answer right away. "He makes me feel like... I'm not alone in this world."
Her cousin sighed. "Then fight for it. But be ready to bleed too."
---
Later that night, long after the house fell silent, Ameera sat at her desk with her journal open. The same one she used to write poetry in before things got serious.
She flipped to a blank page and began writing — a letter she'd never send.
> Dear Ejike,
I miss your voice. I miss how you laugh when you're nervous, like you're trying to convince yourself that the world isn't so heavy. I miss how you always ask how my day went — like it matters to you more than your own.
I wish I could carry your pain for a day. Just one. So you could breathe again. So you wouldn't look so tired when you talk about your dreams.
But I can't. I can't save you. And I don't want to lose myself trying.
Still… I'm here. Quiet. But here. Still choosing you, even if I have to do it in silence.
Yours — always,
Ameera.
She folded the letter, tucked it inside her notebook, and turned off the light.
---
In the dark, the truth echoed the loudest.
She loved him. Not for who he might become, or what he might offer one day — but for who he was when everything else was stripped away.
That was her secret.
And her burden.
But she would carry it.
Even if it broke her.