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Not the public smile. Not the rehearsed one. This was smaller. Private.

“Femi,” she said. “Right on time.”

I slid into the seat across from her. The booth was rounded, cocooned by velvet walls. No one could hear us. That was the point.“I wasn’t sure if I’d come,” I admitted.

“You came,” she said, sipping her drink. “That’s what matters.”

She placed her glass down and leaned in, eyes gleaming with something between mischief and strategy.“You look good in this world.”

"I don’t know what this world is yet.”

“You will.”---

We didn’t talk business at first.We talked stories.She told me about her grandmother in Abeokuta who used to run a market stall but kept the ledger like a banker. I told her about my uncle in Ilorin who taught me to listen more than I speak.

We shared laughter, small details, a dance of histories neither of us trusted anyone else with.Then the mood shifted.Her voice dropped a key.

"Femi… everything you think you know about how this city works is only the first layer. Journalism lives on the surface. But access… lives beneath.”

I didn’t speak. I sipped the whisky, feeling it burn low and clean.“You’ll be contacted soon,” she said, calmly. “A story will come your way. A real one. But it won’t come through normal channels. And it won’t be clean.”

“What kind of story?”

“The kind that changes lives. Or ruins them.”

She reached into her clutch and slid a folded slip of paper across the table.

Cream again. Handwritten. Coordinates and a name.“You’ll know what to do when it arrives.”

Then she stood, smooth and tall, finishing her drink in one elegant motion.She didn’t kiss me. Didn’t touch me.But before she turned to leave, she paused and said:

"Be careful what you dig up, Femi. Some truths are too heavy to carry alone.”

And then she was gone.

I had to say it. “So... what brings you here, really?”

She turned to me slowly, her eyes sharp now. She was no longer smiling.

“Can’t an old friend stop by to say hello?”

“Sure,” I said carefully. “But this doesn’t feel like a ‘hello’ visit.”

She smiled again—this time smaller, tighter. “Maybe I missed you.”

My stomach twisted. This wasn’t just social.

I glanced at the white polythene bag on the edge of the bed—empty. Innocent-looking. Silent.

There were too many unknowns now. A missing bra. A surprise ex. A suspicious coincidence.

And deep down, I could feel it.

Something wasn't adding up.


“Here we are,” I said with a small smile as I returned to the sitting area, balancing the bottles of malt and the biscuits carefully in my hands. I placed them on the center table with a light clink and walked over to the fridge to grab the bottle opener.

“Thank you, Dave,” Funmi said softly, leaning back into the sofa, her arms stretched across the backrest with an air of casual ease. “I know you’re always a darling.”

Her voice carried that familiar teasing lilt, the kind she used back in the days when we were together—back when everything was simpler and more intense. But now, those words felt heavier, layered with history, regret, and perhaps a touch of longing.

I returned to the center table and sat beside her on the sofa, trying to keep my posture neutral. I didn’t want to lean too far in and send the wrong signal, but I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t intrigued either. The mystery of her sudden appearance, the long silence between us, the ghost of our past relationship—it all made the air between us thrum with a quiet tension.

I uncapped her bottle and handed it to her, watching as she took a slow sip.

“I know you’re curious about a lot of things,” she said, turning her head to look directly at me. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain everything.”

I nodded once, tight-lipped. She was right. I had a million questions swirling in my mind, each one sharper than the last: Why now? Why here? What does she want?

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees as she held the cold drink in her hand.

“It was Tope who gave me your address,” she said, watching me closely.

I raised my eyebrows, though I wasn’t truly surprised. I had suspected as much from the moment I opened the door and saw her standing there. Tope had always been our mutual link, our bridge even after the relationship had ended. We’d all gone way back to university days, and I knew Tope could never fully pick a side—especially when someone leaned on him hard enough.

“Figured as much,” I said calmly.

She gave a short nod. “I first reached out to him weeks ago. I asked for your address then, but he kept hesitating. I could sense he was torn. I begged him not to tell you I had contacted him—I wanted it to be a surprise. You know me.” Her lips curled into a small smile. “I’ve always liked my entrances.”

“Yeah,” I chuckled dryly. “You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.”

She laughed—genuinely, this time. “True.”

There was a small silence as we both took sips from our drinks. The biscuits remained untouched on the table between us, like witnesses to a conversation that was just beginning to unspool.

“Finally, this afternoon,” she continued, “he gave in and sent me the location. And well... here I am, with your surprise visit.”

“A surprise, alright,” I said, cracking a grin. “The kind that leaves you blinking in confusion for minutes.”

She smiled again, but this time it faded quickly. I noticed how her shoulders dropped a little, and the light in her eyes dimmed as she took another, deeper sip of her malt.

“I thought by now you’d be happily married in America,” I said gently, not without some curiosity—and yes, a hint of old resentment.

Funmi sighed heavily, her expression turning somber.

“That was the plan,” she said, her voice tinged with bitterness. “But life had other ideas.”

I didn’t interrupt. I just waited.

“The guy,” she continued, slowly, “was a scam. Everything he promised me... was a lie. I found out late last year that he was already married. Had a whole family over there in the U.S. All the visits, all the video calls—it was all a show. A performance he gave to string me along.”

My eyebrows lifted slightly. I hadn’t expected that. Not from the confident, take-no-nonsense Funmi I once knew.

“That must’ve been hard to take,” I said quietly.

She nodded. “It was humiliating. But more than that, it was... disappointing. I gave up so much. I cut ties. I bet my future on a mirage.” She exhaled and looked at me, her eyes glistening slightly—not with tears, but with that familiar fire of a woman who hated being made a fool of. “Well. Better late than never, right? I walked away before it was too late.”

I nodded slowly, absorbing everything.

So that was it. The great American-based Nigerian dream had collapsed. And with it, perhaps, the fantasy that made her walk away from me in the first place. It stung, even now, to think about how quickly she had chosen him over me. One minute we were dreaming of the future together, and the next, she was gone. Just a text and silence. And now, years later, the circle had turned.

I tried to keep my voice neutral. “It’s strange... hearing all this now.”

“I know,” she said, almost in a whisper. “You were probably angry with me. Maybe you still are.”

I looked away, not immediately answering.

Biyi looked like he could not really understand the import of what she was saying.

‘Divorce him,’ he blurted out. ‘Divorce him. Tell him your real husband – your real love – has come to take you away.’

'Are you serious?’ Again, she felt like laughing. He made it sound so simple as if he was instructing her to listen to R & B music. No way.

‘Biyi, you have to be realistic. I’ve been married for about two years now and I must confess that my husband and I love each other. So, you need to be realistic.’

'It can’t be,’ he spluttered. ‘You can’t be in love with him, or any man, for god’s sake.’

His tone was caustic.Now, she was getting exasperated. ‘That’s one fact you have to live with. Princess, I promised you love and unaffected affection. I promised to love you forever. I still stand by my promises and I’m here to manifest them. You always professed your love for me, too, and I believed you. I still do, so I don’t believe you’re in love with any other man.’

Now, he sounded like a desperate lover. 

‘Listen, Biyi, why’re you complicating issues? I was in love with you, but it didn’t work out. Let’s leave this love thing behind us. It’s gone and we have to face the new reality. That reality is the fact that I’m married. Go ahead and find yourself a new babe. I understand South African ladies are very beautiful.’

'No one can replace the love I have for you,’ he stated. His voice rose slightly ‘I love you and I’m not going to lose you.’ 

'Lower your voice,’ she chided him. A couple by a table not far from theirs had paused in their conversation and was staring at them.

Biyi glared around and continued, but this time in a controlled voice. ‘Julie, I’m sorry for the long loss of communication. Why can’t you forgive me?’

‘I have forgiven you. What is gone is gone, that’s the fact. You must also face the fact that I’m the wife of someone else, now.’

'You mean you don’t want me again?’

She became impatient and annoyed. ‘What’s gone over you, for God’s sake? Can’t you face a very simple fact?’

He became silent, brooding. Julie was thoughtful too. Her mind went over his asinine suggestion: divorce him. What a crazy thing to contemplate! He must be crazy to think that she would now jump to her feet, hug him and be so overly joyful over his proposal.

‘So, how are things in South Africa?’ she asked, just for the sake of saying something. The silence had become unnerving.

He grinned. ‘The place is cool. You need to see our little home in S.A. You’ll love it.’

'When are you going back?’

'You mean when are we going back? It all depends on you. A couple of weeks should be enough to arrange everything and be ready. What d’you think?’

She felt dizzy. Something struck her mind and she stood up. ‘I wish you the best of luck during your stay.’

He hurriedly stood up too. ‘Where’re you going, Princess?’

'Home.’ Her answer was tart. ‘Goodbye, Biyi.’

‘Hey, not so fast. We’re still talking.’

She was now totally repulsed by his presence and the only thing she needed now was to get away. She snatched her hand from his and hurried out of the bar. She didn’t look back to see that he remained on the same spot, mouth ajar, looking stunned by her behavior and the abruptness.

She didn’t want to see him again.Still flustered, she swiftly opened the door of her car and gunned it out of the premises. She checked the rear mirror to see if she was being followed. She had read a lot about being followed, trailed or stalked. Now, it was ironic that she found herself in a situation where one of these was happening to her.

Life was whimsical, wasn’t it?In her amateurish mind, she decided that no suspicious motorist or vehicle was trailing her. Was she very harsh on him? Was she very unfeeling, or had she acted the right way by being frank with him? Her mind weighed his words and her responses. She justified her actions.

She was right in treating him the way she had done.For God’s sake, he was as crazy as his proposition. He must be batty to think that he would jump at his offer. She didn’t drive home straight.

She had some shopping to do. Besides, her very good friend, Nike would be celebrating her birthday the following week and Julie would like to buy a little, nice and befitting present for her.It didn’t take her long to complete her shopping and she soon driving home. She hoped she had got rid of Biyi for good. But she was wrong.

Her phone rang and he was the one on the line.

'Why did you walk out on me?’ he demanded, sounding angry. 

‘What is it you want?’ she parried, matching his tone.

Maria didn't know that would be the last time she would be seeing me in that house, for a long time. She waved back at me.














Part Three










If anyone had predicted on Saturday morning that I would soon leave the employ of Ms. Morgan,


I would not have believed it. Here I was, out of her employment and out of job.


I would have to think of what to do. Right now, so many ideas were coming but I wanted to take my time. I had saved enough money and I could conveniently feed and clothe myself for months.


I drove back home. Then I decided to send messages to the supervisors and managers at the stores that I had resigned. Some of them called me back, wondering why I had taken that


sudden decision. I told them I had left for personal reason and would not disclose anything further. Some didn't even bother to call me. It was some days to the new year. I would wait till January before making a move.


I didn't hear anything from Ms. Morgan, or her daughter, and I didn't care to do so. Such was life.


I started the new year on a slow note. By the middle of January, I decided to be doing some foreign exchange and other online trading at home. The money to make might not be much at


the beginning, but I was sure things would pick up as time went on. In February, I realized that the money I was making was not bad. I stayed more at home now with my eyes glued to the tab,


phone or computer monitor. I marked one year remembrance of Busola in solemnness. How times fly! So, it was already a year that my better half departed this world. Hmn...


Towards the end of February, I got a surprise call from Amanda, Ms. Morgan's personal assistant.

"Hello, Amanda. Long time no see. How're you?"


"Not fine. I need to see you. Please where can I see you?"


"Any problem?"


"Well, yes. That's why I need to see you. I believe you can help me solve the problem."


Problem? Now, what kind of problem was that? "Well, I work at home for now. I'm at home."


"Please give me your address. I will come around."


I gave her my address, still wondering what the problem could be. About an hour later, Amanda knocked at our gate. I went downstairs to open it for. She gave me a brief hug. I took her upstairs to my flat.


I ushered Amanda into my sitting room. "It's a nice place you have here, Tayo," she commented.

Not a scoop.

A reality.

A choice.

And maybe… a trap.



---


The street outside was unmarked.

No signboard. No valet stand. Just a single door tucked between a shuttered furniture store and a dark, glassy law firm that looked closed even when it wasn’t. I’d passed the place a hundred times and never once noticed it.

Tonight, I did.

I wore a charcoal blazer. No tie. The kind of look that said “journalist off-duty,” which was code for: don’t ask questions, I won’t answer them.

My hand hovered as I pulled the black access card from my wallet. It felt heavier in my hand tonight—like it knew what it meant. I pressed it to the slim panel beside the door.

A faint click.

Then the door slid inward—no creak, no drama. Just smooth, silent permission.

Inside, the air shifted.


---

The club didn’t look like a club.
Not in the way Lagos nightlife understood it.

There was no pounding music. No neon lights. No sticky cocktails or men trying too hard.

Instead, it felt like the inside of a private library redesigned by a billionaire architect with something to hide. Walls paneled in dark wood, lit by warm, golden sconces. Velvet chairs arranged in tight, intimate clusters. A smell of aged whisky and sandalwood hung in the air, like the place had been waiting years for me to arrive.

A woman in black greeted me. No name tag. No words. Just a glance at the card in my hand and a small nod.

She led me through a narrow hall into the lounge.

At least thirty people were inside, scattered in murmuring groups. Some wore agbadas tailored to perfection. Others were in foreign suits with no visible branding, the kind you couldn’t buy—you inherited. I recognized a media mogul, two former ministers, and a woman I was almost certain headed one of the country’s covert financial intelligence units. But no one made eye contact. Everyone was looking at no one, and noticing everything.

A waiter glided up, silver tray balanced with exactness. “Welcome, Mr. Femi.”

He didn’t ask what I wanted. He handed me a glass already poured—neat, amber, and expensive.

“Princess Betty is expecting you. Would you like to join her now?”

I nodded, my throat dry.


---

She sat in the corner booth, alone.

Not isolated—deliberately placed. Like a queen in a game where everyone else had to keep moving. She wore black tonight. Not mourning black. Power black. Silk, tailored sharp at the shoulders. Her hair was down this time, a cascade of soft curls resting just below her collarbone. Around her neck, a single gold chain glinted under the low light.

She looked up as I approached, and smiled.

Not the public smile. Not the rehearsed one. This was smaller. Private.

“Femi,” she said. “Right on time.”

When I came out, she’d dished the food, covered it neatly, and gone back to her spot on the couch. She glanced up at me and smiled.

“Sit small. This episode is mad,” she said, patting the cushion beside her.

And I did. I sat.

Not because I wanted to watch.

But because sitting next to her was the only thing anchoring me to the man I used to be.



---


Monday morning came with rain.

The Lagos sky was the color of wet concrete, clouds sagging low, impatient with their burden. Raindrops traced crooked paths down the office windows, the city’s usual soundtrack—horns, shouts, street vendors—muted by the downpour. It was the kind of weather that slowed everything down, made people late, made stories stall.

But I got to the newsroom early.

Partly out of habit. Mostly because I needed the noise, the emails, the deadlines. Something ordinary. Something clean.

I walked in soaked from the waist down, umbrella useless in the wind, and waved at the receptionist without much energy. My desk lamp was off, same as I’d left it Friday. Papers still sat where I’d pushed them aside—draft edits, a fact-checking sheet, an old press badge from a statehouse briefing.

But when I pulled open the top drawer, something new was waiting.

A small white envelope.

No name. No logo. Just sealed. Clean. Quiet.

I looked around. No one seemed to be watching. Janet from Layout was arguing with IT again. Deji was eating puff-puff over his keyboard like always. Normalcy.

I opened it.

Inside: a handwritten note in crisp, looping script. And beneath it, a black card—heavy, metallic, engraved with a single symbol I didn’t recognize. It caught the light in a way plastic never could. Almost like it was meant to glow.

I read the note twice before it sank in.

Femi,
You’re on the list now.
Discreet travel.
Private access.
Other doors.
When you need me, call.
Let no one know.
—B



Folded behind the card was a reservation slip. Cream paper, thick, embossed.

The Jewel Club – VIP Lounge, Victoria Island.
Permanent Access.
Last Fridays only.

No explanation. No instructions. Just access.

I stared at the card again, holding it in the fluorescent hum of the newsroom, watching how it shimmered. Not gold. Not silver. Something darker. Sleeker.

Like it wasn’t just currency—but a kind of key.

A key to what, though?

The Jewel Club. I’d heard of it—whispers, not facts. An invitation-only lounge for Lagos’ inner circle. Not just the rich. The entrenched. The ones who don’t show up on Instagram or campaign posters, but make the rules the rest of us live by.

And now, apparently, I had a seat.

I closed the drawer gently, tucking the envelope into a manila file labeled “Pending Pitches.”

Then I sat back in my chair and stared at the rain hitting the glass.

I had stepped through a door.

And on the other side was a life I had only written about—distanced by ink and ethics.

But now, it was mine.

Not a story.

Not a scoop.

A reality.

A choice.

And maybe… a trap.

Julie looked at her daughter quickly.

'Don't tell me what you want to discuss with me is your boyfriend.'

'It is part of it.' Damilola grimaced.

'Why is it that I'm very unlucky with those I've had as boyfriends? Why is it that I don't have a lasting relationship? Why ?'

'Hey, one by one, dear lady. Let's take the questions one by one.'

Damilola took a deep breath. 'Mummy, I have noticed that the relationships I have with men don't last; those I think should lead to lasting relationship don't last? Why is it like that?'

Her mother chuckled. 'My dear girl, why are you anxious over nothing?'

Damilola shook her head. 'Mummy, you think this is nothing? You think a relationship one has hoped will last forever and which suddenly comes to an end after four months or so, is nothing? I don't think so, mum. I don't think so.'

Her mother smiled. 'If you want the relationship to last, then you should make it work.'

'I'm trying on my part. I'm doing all I could do to make it work. The problem is the other person. They were not committed as I am. They're so unfaithful and unreliable.'

Julie mused over what her daughter just said. 'What made you come to all these conclusions?'

'Mum, let me give you the instance of the last lover I had. I was in his house last Saturday, after a couple of hours, I left, went to Ikeja for shopping and realized that I forgot my phone in his house.

'I drove back there and what did I see? I saw him romancing another lady in the sitting room. Yes, without any shame, they were romancing right there in the sitting room. Our relationship was just some few months old, and this happened.'

Julie was pensive for a while. 'All these don't mean you're doomed or something. What I can advise is: don't fall for any guy. Give in only to a serious minded one. Once you do that, you'll see that things will work out well.'

Damilola nodded. May be her mother was right. She had not been careful about making a choice. But wait a minute. All these lovers looked very serious and committed at the beginning. How was she supposed to know that they would turn out to be unfaithful and unreliable? Despite her mother's simplification of the matter, Damilola still believed there was much to it.




Hilda was around to spend the short two-week break after the end of the first semester. She had been around now for days, lazing around, chatting with friends on the phone and receiving some in the house. She had only spent exactly four days, so she still had many days to spend.

Her presence had disorganized Nonso's private plans. However, whatever would be the case, he had decided to visit Sename in the middle of the night tonight. He might have done that before now, but Hilda had this habit of watching the television until late in the night. That shouldn't be a problem, but it was: the room given to Sename was adjacent to the sitting room. Nonso would have to wait for her to leave the sitting room so that he could go and meet Sename.

When it was about half hour past midnight, Nonso tiptoed to the edge of the staircase. From there, he could hear the sound of the television. He went back to sleep. About an hour later, he woke up again. He watched as Pauline slept and snored.

He tiptoed to the staircase again. This time, there was no sound from the sitting room. Good, he thought. Stealthily, he climbed the stairs down and went to her room. He turned the knob and it opened. He had earlier told her he would be coming and she should not lock the door.

She sighed, a long, drawn-out breath, as though releasing a burden she hadn’t even meant to carry.

“Don’t bother,” she said finally.

Her voice was soft. Not forgiving, but not accusatory either. Just tired.

“I know it’s difficult to believe,” I said gently, “but it’s the truth. If not for the fact that I have a visitor in my room right now, I would have asked you to come with me and see for yourself.”

That made her eyebrows twitch. “You have a visitor?”

I nodded. “Yes. A female visitor, actually. But nothing serious—it’s just an old friend who dropped by unexpectedly. Honestly, I wasn’t planning for any of this today.”

A faint smile pulled at the corner of her lips, just for a second. “Sounds like your day’s been full.”

“You don’t even know the half of it,” I muttered, managing a dry chuckle. “Once again, Ms. Kay, I’m deeply sorry about the missing bra. I swear to you, I wanted nothing more than to settle this peacefully.”

She gave a small nod, her eyes less tense now. “Alright, Dave. See you later.”

“Yeah,” I said, backing toward the door. “See you.”

I stepped out, closed the door behind me gently, and sighed hard. I hadn’t exactly solved anything, but at least I hadn’t made things worse. And thank God—she hadn’t pushed the issue. If she’d insisted on searching the room herself, I would’ve been forced to explain the Funmi situation too. That would’ve been far more complicated.

What a day, I thought as I trudged back to my room. My head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton.

Funmi was still sitting on the sofa, where I’d left her. As I entered, she looked up at me, a curious expression on her face. The television was on now, low volume, tuned to some fashion channel that I guessed she wasn’t even watching. Just flicking through the motions.

“Sorry,” I said quickly, trying to smooth the tension. “I had to settle something with a neighbor. It took a little longer than I expected.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I replied vaguely. “Just a small misunderstanding. Nothing to worry about.”

She nodded, eyes still on me. “So... what can I have?”

“Anything,” she said casually, like the queen of a small country.

I gave a polite nod. “Alright. Give me another moment. I’ll go get something for you.”

Before she could respond, I grabbed my wallet and stepped outside again, heading straight for the gate.

Just across the dusty road from the house, a familiar provision store stood nestled between two kiosks. I greeted the storekeeper and asked for two chilled bottles of malt and two packs of digestive biscuits—Funmi’s favorite combination back in the day. It was something of a ritual for us, once upon a time. I hadn’t thought about that memory in ages, but it came to me now, unbidden.

As I walked back to the compound, my thoughts returned to the other matter. The mystery of the disappearing bra refused to leave my mind. It was like an itch in my brain. How could something just vanish like that? I retraced my steps for the tenth time. I hadn’t moved the bag. I had locked the room. Damilola denied everything. And Funmi—well, I wasn’t sure what to think of her yet.

Could she have taken it?

That idea had crossed my mind earlier, but I had buried it. Why would Funmi take a bra that wasn’t hers? What would she even gain from that?

Still... her visit had been strangely timed.

As I re-entered my room, the cool air greeted me like a sigh of relief. Funmi had made herself at home. She was now reclined on the sofa, shoes off, legs curled beneath her, flipping the remote from one channel to another like she was waiting for something—or someone—to entertain her.

“Welcome back,” she said, without looking up.

“Thanks,” I replied, setting the bottles and biscuits on the table. “Got you something.”

She reached forward lazily and grabbed one of the malt bottles, inspecting the label before twisting off the cap.

“Digestives,” she said with a nostalgic smile. “Still remember my snack of choice, huh?”

“Hard to forget,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed again.

She took a sip and sighed. “You always were thoughtful, Dave.”

There was a pause.

I looked at her carefully. She still had the same poise, the same calm confidence that had always both attracted and unsettled me. But underneath that, there was something different now—something unreadable.

I had to say it. “So... what brings you here, really?”

I wasn’t sure if I was falling into something dangerous or stepping into the beginning of a second life.

But for now, I stayed.

And in the quiet between us, something unspoken solidified—an alliance dressed in skin and secrets.

---


By the time I pulled up to the flat, it was just after nine. The hum of the generator filled the night air, low and constant, like a heartbeat beneath the street’s silence. I sat in the car a while longer, engine off, lights dimmed, watching the orange flicker of the compound’s security bulb reflect off the bonnet. I could already hear the faint sounds of our neighbor’s baby crying, someone washing plates next door, and the echo of laughter from a small TV upstairs.

The world hadn’t changed.

But I had.

When I finally stepped inside, the smell of egusi and crayfish met me at the door—home, unmistakable. Warm, textured, familiar.

Solape was curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, wearing my old “Olamide Live in Concert” hoodie. The sleeves hung long past her wrists. She was half-watching a K-drama on the small TV, sound low, the glow of it dancing off her cheek. A bowl of garri and groundnut balanced in her lap like it had always belonged there.

She looked up the moment the door clicked shut.

“Babe. You’re back late o.” Her voice carried no suspicion, only concern. “Hope no wahala?”

I dropped my bag by the shoe rack and forced a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Work stuff. Something in Lekki.”

It wasn’t technically a lie. Just… not the kind of truth anyone deserves.

She stretched as she stood, arms overhead, hoodie riding up slightly to show a sliver of soft belly. She yawned, rubbing one eye. “You want your food? I kept small egusi for you. With semo.”

“Yeah. Maybe later,” I said, my voice hoarse.

She didn’t press. She never did.

She crossed the room and kissed my cheek gently, her lips warm, faintly sticky from groundnut dust. Then she padded toward the kitchen, humming a tune from her show—soft, unbothered, the kind of peace that comes when you trust the world around you.

I watched her go, her steps light, barefoot on the tiles.

And the weight in my chest grew heavier. Not like guilt exactly—guilt is sharper. This was heavier than that. Slower. The kind of weight that settles behind your ribs and makes a home there.

She had no idea.

No idea where I’d been. No idea what I’d done.

And I didn’t know if I wanted her to.

Maybe I was already too far in. Too far gone.

There was something deeply unfair in how easily she moved through our space—so certain of love, so secure in us. I envied her for it. And hated myself for ruining the thing she still believed in.

I walked to the bathroom, washed my face. Looked at myself in the mirror. My own eyes looked like a stranger’s.

When I came out, she’d dished the food, covered it neatly, and gone back to her spot on the couch. She glanced up at me and smiled.