Ayomide hasn’t opened the curtains in three days.
The room smells like dust, old tears, and Milo that he never finished drinking. Her mug is still on the windowsill — white with red roses. Okikiola loved roses. She said they reminded her of her mum. He never asked why.
Now he never can.
He lies on the bed, fully clothed, eyes wide open. The fan hums lazily overhead. Outside, Lagos is alive — street hawkers shouting, danfo buses honking, generators humming. But inside, time is stuck. Everything reminds him of her.She used to hum in the mornings, the soft sound trailing into the kitchen while she made coffee she didn’t even drink — only because he liked it. She watered the plants with the care of someone who believed everything deserved a chance to grow. She loved loudly in all the ways he never understood.
“Ayo, why don’t you ever talk to me?” she had asked once, sitting cross-legged on their bed, voice barely above a whisper.
“Talk about what?” he replied, eyes glued to his phone.
“Us. How you feel. If you still love me.”
He had chuckled, not looking up.
“You overthink too much, abeg.”
That was his favorite phrase. She hated it. He knew, but still said it — every time she tried to bring her heart to him.
And still, she stayed. For a while.
“Babe,” she called, “come and help me taste this sauce na.”
He grumbled but walked over, sweat on his brow, his steps lazy. She held the spoon out with a dramatic flair. He tasted it and made a face.
“E be like say you put all the pepper in Lagos inside.”
She laughed and hit his arm.
“You’ll survive. It’s perfect.”
They sat together at their tiny dining table, the one with the broken chair she always warned him about. She looked at him and said,
“You know, I love this. Just this. Us. Simple.”
He didn’t say anything. Just nodded and kept twirling his fork.
If only he had told her that her presence made his world softer. That her smile slowed down time. That he loved her too — even if his love was quiet and clumsy.
But he didn’t.
Because he thought love was eternal. That people like Okikiola would always be there.
Until she wasn’t.
The last time they spoke, she was standing by the door, suitcase in hand.
“I begged you with everything but words,” she said, eyes full of unshed tears. “You just never heard me.”
“So you’re just leaving?” he asked, arms folded. pride louder than pain.
She nodded, hands trembling.
“I’ve been leaving for a long time. You just never noticed.”
He thought she was bluffing.
But she didn’t call. Didn’t post sad quotes on WhatsApp. Didn’t block him or leave breadcrumbs.
She simply vanished.
Until last week, when he heard.
Accident. Rainy road. No seatbelt. Quick.
Now, he listens to her old voice notes at night — the ones she used to send when she couldn’t sleep.
He never replied to them. Just smiled and rolled over.
Now he plays them on loop, whispering "sorry" to the silence.
He walks into the kitchen, picks up her cracked rose mug — the one she broke while rushing to answer his call one evening. She had kept it, said it was still useful.
She always believed that broken things could still hold something beautiful.
He wishes he had believed that too.
But grief, he’s learning, is love with nowhere to go.
And every morning, he sits in the dark, staring at where the sun used to rise.
Today, for the first time, he opens her last message again — the one he never replied to.
“I hope one day you see me the way I always saw you.”
He reads it slowly, like prayer. Maybe if he reads it enough, she’ll come back. Maybe if he whispers it out loud, she’ll hear it, wherever she is.
His fingers hover over the keyboard… then he types.
“I see you now.”
But there's no send button. No blue ticks. No second chance.
Just silence.
And the echo of everything he never said.
GLOSSARY
- Abeg : Please.
- E be like say you put all the pepper in Lagos inside : it's looks like you put all the pepper in Lagos inside.
All images are from Meta ai.
Thank you for reading 😊
JoJo 💜