If pain had a passport, mine would have every page stamped.
The plane lifted off from Murtala Muhammed Airport, and as the city lights of Lagos disappeared beneath the clouds, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. It wasn't just a trip; it was an escape. A desperate one. I was leaving behind everything I had ever known—my family, my memories, and most of all, Tunde.
God, Tunde.
Even now, just the thought of his name pulled at something sharp inside me. He had been everything. My first love. My closest friend. My dream in human form. We met in school—he was charming, confident, with this ability to talk about the future like he had it planned out for both of us. I believed him. I built my world around him.
Until the day I found out he was seeing someone else.
She was richer, older, and apparently more "fitting" for the kind of man he wanted to become. His words, not mine. Just like that, three years of love and loyalty were tossed aside like leftovers. I had stood there in his apartment, shaking, when he said, "Asa, you're a beautiful girl. But I have to be strategic about my life."
Strategic.
As if I was a bad business deal.
I cried for weeks. My mother begged me to eat. Friends sent messages I didn't open. But something in me refused to stay broken. I signed up for an international scholarship exam on a whim—just to have something else to think about. I studied in silence, pouring every ounce of my heartbreak into those books. I didn't tell anyone. I didn't want anyone's opinions or pity.
When the email came saying "Congratulations, Asa. You have been awarded a full scholarship to study at Universidad Internacional de la Costa, Mexico," I sat on the floor and sobbed like someone had died. Because something had—my old life. And something new was finally, finally being born.
Now, here I was, watching clouds drift by from a plane window, hoping to find peace in a country where no one knew my name.
⸻
Mexico smelled like possibility.
The sun was different here—softer, golden. The air carried scents of roasted corn, spice, and ocean wind. The city of Monterrey was alive in a way Lagos wasn't—quieter, yet somehow more intense.
I got a small apartment with two other girls Betty and Sonia—both international students like me. We barely talked. Everyone was surviving in their own way. My scholarship covered tuition, but I needed money for rent, food, transport… everything else. So, by the end of my second week, I started looking for work.
And that's how I found Club Cielo.
It was luxurious, high-end. Neon lights danced across polished floors, and the music pulsed like a heartbeat. I was lucky to be hired as a server, even if the manager looked at me like I was a toy he couldn't wait to break.
Ricardo.
The man was… intense. Tall, broad-shouldered, always in a dark button-up shirt like he was going to a funeral. His voice was smooth, but it held something cold underneath—something dangerous. From the very first day, I could feel it. The way his eyes followed me. The way he brushed against me when he didn't need to. The way his lips curved whenever I ignored him.
He wanted me. And he hated that I didn't care.
Every week, my pay was short. When I asked about it, he'd lean in, voice low.
"You either take this, or leave."
I took it. Not because I was scared—well, maybe a little—but because I had no choice. I needed this job. I needed to survive.
And so I worked.
Every night, I slipped into heels and black dresses and became someone else. I smiled at drunk men, cleaned up after messy fights, and carried trays with grace even when my legs were trembling. But inside, I was keeping count. Of every look, every touch, every insult.
Because one day, I promised myself, I would leave this place. And when I did, I'd never look back.