When I got home from the date, I couldn't stop thinking about Justin. Every little thing he did replayed in my mind like scenes from an old romantic film I didn't want to end. I had asked him to pretend — just for a moment — to treat me like his girlfriend, to indulge me in the warmth of a feeling I had desperately craved for so long. But I guess he didn't. Or maybe he did, in his own quiet, careful way, in gestures so subtle that it was easy to miss them if you weren't paying close attention.
He was kind. Gentle. Masculine yet soft in a way that made my chest tighten and my breath hitch. The way he opened the car door for me, like it was the most natural thing in the world. How he carried my food tray, not because he had to, but because he wanted to — as though it was a small way to show he cared, without words. And when the evening ended, he hugged me. Not a loose, distant kind of hug, but a deep, firm one, the kind that makes you feel safe and wanted, even if it's fleeting. Before I got into the Uber he ordered for me, he pulled me in close and held me there for a heartbeat longer than I expected. That simple embrace carried so much tenderness, it pulled me into a world of imagination — a world where I was truly his.
I replayed every word of our conversation, the way he looked at me when I spoke, how his lips curved into a soft smile when I made a silly joke. I wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, something had shifted between us. That maybe seeing me in person would stir something new in him, something stronger than his convictions, something bigger than age or distance.
That night, unable to tame the storm of emotions swirling inside me, I picked up my phone and texted him. My hands trembled as I typed the words, my heart pounding against my ribs like it was trying to warn me, to stop me before it was too late.
"Jay👑, now that we've met… is there a possibility that things could change?"
I knew it was an awkward question. I knew I probably shouldn't have asked. It made me seem desperate, clinging to hope where there might be none. But I needed to ask. I had to know. I couldn't keep floating in a sea of what-ifs, pulling myself deeper into a feeling that had nowhere to go.
His reply came faster than I expected. Simple. Sharp. Final.
"Chioma," he said. "I can't take you the way you want me to… but we can still be friends."
It felt like something inside me cracked, a pain so sharp it made me catch my breath. Friends? I didn't want to be his friend. I wanted more. I wanted everything. I wanted the late-night conversations, the good morning texts, the stolen kisses, the gentle touches, the feeling of belonging to someone and having them belong to me. I wanted the impossible, and it was slipping through my fingers.
But all I could manage to reply was, "Okay."
Then, I curled up in bed, clutching my pillow to my chest as though it could hold me together. The tears came quietly at first, then heavier, until I was sobbing into the darkness of my room. I cried myself to sleep, my heart aching in ways I didn't have words for.
As the days went by, the space between Jay and me grew wider — like a bridge slowly collapsing under the weight of silence. The more I tried to hold on to him, the further he drifted away from me. It felt like loving him was a crime I was being punished for.
Every morning, I made sure I was the first to say "good morning," hoping it would warm his heart, make him think of me. Every night, I sent the last message before bed, praying he'd dream of me, miss me, feel something. But all it seemed to do was push him further into himself, into a cold, unreachable place.
His replies grew cold, distant, painfully formal — like I was a stranger who had mistakenly texted the wrong number. There was no warmth, no softness, not even irritation. Just indifference. And somehow, that was the cruelest cut of all.
Did I want to move on, to stop loving someone who had clearly let go of me? Yes. God, yes. But could I? No. Because I loved this man with every fragile piece of my heart, with a depth that made no sense but felt inescapably real.
Weeks passed. Then months. And then, one day, he blocked me. Just like that — shut the door without warning. No explanation. No goodbye. I remember staring at my screen, feeling the sting in my chest as my messages failed to deliver. I tried reaching out with a new line, just to hear his voice, to beg for some kind of closure. But the moment he recognized my voice, he hung up. Blocked me again. It was like erasing my existence was the only way he knew how to cope.
And yet, some sick, broken part of me was glad. At least he remembered my voice. At least I still existed somewhere in his memory, even if it was a place he no longer wanted to visit.
Two years later
That Saturday afternoon, I was at home, scrubbing the kitchen floor — a routine that had become my weekend therapy. The smell of soap filled the air, the rhythmic scrape of the brush against the tiles giving my restless hands something to do. I was deep in my thoughts, my heart still aching from memories I told myself I had long buried, when my phone rang.
A number I didn't recognize.
"Hello?" I said cautiously, wiping my damp hand on my shorts.
"Good morning, Miss Chioma," a polite female voice spoke. "This is DC Restaurant calling."
My heart skipped. Then it jumped. Then it soared.
DC Restaurant.
It had been my dream for years to work there — the most prestigious restaurant in all of Owerri. I had sent my application weeks ago and nearly forgot about it, buried under the weight of heartbreak and daily survival.
"We're calling regarding your application for the position of Head Chef," the voice continued. "We'd like you to come in for an interview tomorrow morning at 9 a.m."
I pressed my hand against my chest, feeling the rapid beat of my heart, and whispered, Thank you, God.
A new beginning was calling my name.