"You really think we don't know your secret?" she yelled, gripping a handful of my nightwear tighter while glaring down at me.
I yelled back before my mind could even form sense. "Say it! What do you think you know about me?" My voice was louder than I intended. I hissed and rolled my eyes so hard I swear I saw the back of my skull.
"Oh, we're not just friends, we're sisters," I said in a mocking tone, my lips thinning, head jerking with every word. Then I looked her dead in the eye, the coldest I’d ever been. "Sisters fight, but sisters don’t threaten each other with secrets told in loyalty and vulnerability. You think you know me? No, Esther. You only know the things I allowed you to know. And there’s nothing you can say here today that I consider a "secret"." I air-quoted the word just to sting a little. "So go ahead. Maybe you’ll discover your newscasting career through it. I’ll be honored to be your first headline."
She hissed, let go of my clothes, and turned to face the landlord.
That’s when reality hit me. My legs wobbled, but I stood firm. Not now. Not ever again would they see me weak. I leaned subtly against the railing, trying to look unbothered, though I was running on fumes.
It was supposed to be a calm Saturday. No lectures, no plans. I should’ve been under my blanket, laptop on my thighs, binge-watching Too Hot to Handle and pretending I had a British accent. Instead, I was outside in my nightwear, hair tangled into something that looked like a bird’s nest, standing in front of the landlord, the resident gossip, and two girls I’d once called sisters.
The hostel had twelve rooms, six upstairs and six downstairs. Shared kitchen, shared bathroom, shared drama. Funny thing is, it didn’t start bad. We were that trio in the building, cooking together, making kitchen videos, going to the market hand-in-hand like housewives of some low-budget reality show. The boys in the compound envied our friendship. Or so I thought.
I should’ve seen it coming, though. The way the first girl talked about the second when she wasn’t around. Then went to the second to talk about me. It was always something: my attitude, my dressing, my self-esteem.” One of the boys even texted me once: “Be careful of those girls.” That message then, gave me a confirmation of what the little voice in my head was already saying.
But the thing about small betrayals is, they don’t come all at once. They build, little whispers, side-eyes, conversations that stop when you walk in. Until one day, it’s too obvious to pretend anymore.
That morning, I woke up to their voices and the landlord’s knock. Apparently, there had been complaints, noise, gossip, something about a “secret.” I didn’t even know what they were talking about, but their energy told me enough. They’d been planning this.
When I stepped outside, the other tenants were pretending not to listen. Esther was already defensive, her tone too loud, her hands too expressive. The other girl stood slightly behind her, nodding along like a backup singer, taking the stance of someone ready to beat another person.
I can’t remember everything that was said; I just remember the heat in my chest. I’d swallowed too much already, the gossip, the cold shoulders, the pretending. And in that moment, all the disbelief I’d been holding back became evident.
We argued for what felt like forever, voices echoing through the corridor. It wasn’t about a secret, neither was it about the landlord. It was about pride, insecurity, and everything that had built up between us. By the time it ended, the landlord was shaking his head and muttering about “girls and their wahala.” The gossip boy looked like Christmas had come early.
When everyone left, I went back inside, closed my door, and sat on my bed. The room felt smaller. Quieter. I could still feel the tremor in my fingers. It wasn’t anger anymore, just disappointment.
We didn’t talk again after that day. We still lived in the same building, but it became a silent war zone. I’d hear them laughing in the kitchen and choose to eat later. Sometimes one of them would walk past me and smile like nothing happened.
There was no apology. No closure. Just distance.
Oh, there was indeed an "apology". An apology that sounded like, "I'm sorry that happened. You know you also did this and that so you're not entirely blameless. Anyway, I'm starting this business, I have a very small gown that won't fit anyone, you're the perfect size so please model it for me"
Lol.
The friendship ended not with a big dramatic explosion, but with quiet avoidance, like strangers who used to know each other too well, or so we thought.
I still think about it sometimes. How something that started with laughter, dreams of sisterhood, and late-night cooking could dissolve into tension, hatred, and whispers. I try not to overanalyze it anymore. People change. I definitely did too. Maybe we were only meant to exist in each other’s stories for a short time, the way some people are meant to be lessons, not lifetimes.
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In response to The Inkwell Combined Writing Prompt #1 ~ Fiction or Creative Nonfiction. All images are from Google Gemini
Thank you for reading. 🧡