Kelvin's Perspective
I sat alone in my office, the steady hum of the city a distant backdrop to the storm of thoughts inside my head. The soft glow of the evening sun filtering through the blinds cast long shadows across the polished floor, mirroring the unsettled weight in my chest. Something had been nagging at me—an unresolved matter from the past that I couldn't quite let go of. Picking up my phone, I initiated a secure video call with my best friend, Justin. There was no trace of our usual banter today; I needed clarity, and the truth couldn't wait.
"Justin," I began in a deep, measured tone, my voice carrying the gravity of the moment, "we need to discuss something important."
He answered with his usual steady baritone, a hint of concern lacing his voice. "Talk, Kelvin."
I didn't hesitate. "Do you remember Chioma?" My tone brooked no delay.
"Chioma?" he echoed slowly, as though weighing the name on his tongue.
"That's right—the one from two years back. The date that didn't end well," I continued, my voice calm but direct. "She works for me now."
There was a brief pause on his end. I could see the subtle shift in his expression—the narrowing of his gaze, the tightening of his jaw. The name had landed, and it wasn't lost on him. A flicker of surprise passed through his eyes, quickly masked by stoic composure.
"She found her way to you, didn't she?" Justin said at last, a wry edge in his voice, though I could sense something heavier beneath it.
I studied him through the screen, noting the careful neutrality in his tone, the way his face gave nothing away while his eyes said more than words could. I knew him too well. Behind that calm exterior was a man processing a thousand unspoken thoughts.
"It wasn't planned," I admitted. "Life's strange like that."
There was another brief silence, thick with things neither of us wanted to fully say aloud. I saw it in his face—the surprise, the faint displeasure he quickly buried. I knew exactly where his mind had gone. Back then, he'd been the one to keep his distance, to walk away, to make it clear he didn't want her. And now, by some twist of fate, she'd ended up within my circle.
He drew a steady breath. "You know what?" Justin began, his voice even and unhurried. "It's not what I expected, but hey… you're your own man, Kelvin. I made my choices back then. Whatever happens now… that's on you."
I respected him in that moment, more than I could put into words. There was no petty rivalry in his tone, no defensive claim over a past he'd walked away from. He handled it like a grown man should—owning his part, accepting the turn of events, and keeping our friendship above old ghosts.
"I appreciate that," I said. "I'm not calling to stir up old ground. I just needed to be upfront."
Justin's expression remained composed, though the weight of history lingered in the air between us. "Look, Kelvin—she's working for you now, and if you're thinking of moving forward in any capacity, I have no problem with it. None. I'm not that guy. We've built too much for anything petty to come between us."
There was a firm resolve in his voice, and I believed him. Whatever flicker of unease or reflection he felt, he wasn't going to let it interfere. Not with who we were, not with what we'd built over the years.
"I knew I could count on you," I said.
"Always," Justin replied. "Just… be clear on what you want. Don't half-step with her."
I nodded, our silent agreement sealed. As much as we prided ourselves on being decisive men, the past still cast its long, unrelenting shadow. My decision was firm—I had to follow my heart and instincts, even if it meant confronting memories best left unspoken.
---
Justin's Perspective
When Kelvin's call came through, I knew immediately there was no idle catch-up in his voice. I answered with a steady "Kelvin," bracing myself for whatever weighty matter he was about to drop.
And then, he said it.
"Chioma."
The name hit like a sudden breeze stirring old embers. I hadn't heard it in a long while, yet the moment he spoke it, every memory of her surfaced without permission. I didn't show it, of course. Years had taught me how to master my reactions. I gave a small, measured nod.
"Chioma?" I repeated, as though testing the name for familiarity.
"That's right—the one from two years back. The date that didn't end well," Kelvin said, his tone calm but with that unmistakable steel underneath. "She works for me now."
For a split second, my gut tightened. Not out of jealousy, but at the ironic turn of it all. She'd found her way to him. Life's funny like that. And while on the outside I remained collected, a part of me couldn't ignore the twinge of discomfort. Not because I still wanted her. I was the one who walked away. I was the one who wouldn't chase her, who refused to bridge that gap when I had the chance.
But here she was—in his world now.
"She found her way to you, didn't she?" I said, careful to let it sound almost amused.
Kelvin didn't smirk, didn't gloat. "It wasn't planned," he said. "Life's strange like that."
And it was. I took a slow breath, masking the conflict running through my head. I'd made my decision back then, drawn my lines. Whatever discomfort I felt now was mine to manage, not his to carry.
"You know what?" I finally said, making sure my voice was steady. "It's not what I expected, but you're your own man, Kelvin. I made my choices back then. Whatever happens now… that's on you."
There was a pause, a quiet understanding that didn't need over-explaining. I respected him for bringing it to me, for not letting it blindside me some other way. That was the difference between men like us and others.
"I appreciate that," he said.
And I meant it when I told him I had no problem with it. None. Sure, part of me would always remember how she laughed, the easy way she made conversation, the what-ifs I'd long since buried. But I wasn't about to stand in the way now. Not when I'd already walked out of that chapter.
"Look," I told him. "She's working for you now, and if you're thinking of moving forward in any capacity, I have no problem with it. We've built too much for anything petty to come between us."
I knew he believed me, because he nodded once and that was that.
"Just be clear about what you want," I added. "Don't half-step with her."
"Always," he replied.
And with that, the conversation ended. Not with lingering bitterness or hollow nostalgia, but with two men, secure in who they were, acknowledging a past neither could fully erase but both were strong enough to navigate.