The late afternoon sky hung low over Port Harcourt, blushing gold and apricot as the sun dipped slowly behind the skyline. The roads were still busy—horns bleating, hawkers weaving through the traffic, life unfolding in its chaotic, unapologetic rhythm. But inside Mike and Danika's car, the silence stretched taut and unbroken.
They didn't speak as they pulled into the small parking lot of Amara's Café—a cozy corner spot tucked between a used bookstore and a faded pharmacy. It had been their retreat for years. A sanctuary. The place they came to dream out loud, to argue softly, to whisper ideas on napkins and split vanilla cake when money was tight.
Today, the weight between them felt heavier than any previous visit.
Mike killed the engine, then rested his hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead.
Danika glanced at him, her face unreadable. "You're quiet."
"I don't want to say the wrong thing."
She let out a small, humorless laugh. "That's a first."
He looked at her, but she was already reaching for the door handle. "Let's go inside," she said.
The café hadn't changed.
Warm wooden tones. A slight scent of cinnamon and coffee beans. A string of tiny fairy lights still dangled in the front window, blinking lazily as the sun faded. The barista, a plump man named Seyi who knew their orders by heart, gave them a small wave.
Mike raised a hand in return but didn't smile.
They sat at their usual corner booth—the one beneath the framed black-and-white photo of Fela Kuti playing the saxophone. Danika ordered coffee. Mike got nothing. His appetite had dissolved two days ago, when the offer letter arrived in his inbox.
For a moment, all they could hear was the clink of mugs, low music humming through the speaker above them, and the steady pulse of their own nerves.
Danika stirred her drink absentmindedly, eyes fixed on the swirling foam.
"I don't want us to make this decision out of fear," she said finally.
Mike nodded, but his gaze was distant. "What if staying is the mistake?"
She met his eyes then. "What if leaving is?"
Silence again.
Mike rubbed the back of his neck. "I keep thinking about what this could mean for us. For the baby we want. For our future. It's Europe, Danika. Resources. Network. A salary we've never even touched."
"I know," she said. "Believe me, I know. But every time I picture you boarding that plane... it's like someone's pressing their thumb into my chest."
He reached for her hand. "I wouldn't be leaving us. I'd be trying to secure us."
Danika's voice trembled. "But we've spent years building this life. Brick by brick. You're not just leaving the country—you'd be leaving our rhythms, our mornings, our home. What if the distance changes us?"
"It won't."
"You can't promise that."
Mike exhaled hard. "No, I can't. But I know we've survived worse."
They sat there, the past floating up around them like perfume—thick, invisible, impossible to ignore.
The first year, when Mike had nearly collapsed from exhaustion running two jobs. Danika waking at 3 a.m. to clean houses before nursing school.
The miscarriage.
The sleepless nights where they sat on the floor of their old apartment, eating instant noodles in silence because speaking hurt more than hunger.
The balcony promise: We start again, every time, together.
Danika's voice broke through the fog. "What if this time… we don't come back from it?"
Mike's voice was low. "Then we weren't as strong as we thought."
She flinched, and he immediately regretted it.
"I didn't mean—"
"No, it's fine," she interrupted. "Maybe we're finally at that place where we have to choose: grow together… or grow apart."
A beat passed. Then another.
Mike finally spoke. "Can I be honest?"
Danika gave a small nod.
"I'm scared, Danika. Not of going. But of staying stuck. We've worked so hard to survive. But what if this is the moment we stop surviving and start living?"
She was quiet, eyes glistening.
"Do you want to go?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "But only if it doesn't mean losing this."
He tapped the table between them.
Us.
Danika swallowed. "Then we make a plan. We name the fears. We prepare for the hard. But if you go… we do it on purpose. Together."
Mike stared at her for a long moment. "You'd let me go?"
She smiled faintly. "I won't let you. I'll stand with you. But we need a timeline. Visits. Check-ins. No disappearing into work. No pretending we're okay when we're not."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper—handwritten, worn.
"I made this the night the offer came," he said. "A pros and cons list. For us."
Danika unfolded it slowly.
Under "Pros":
Money for the foundation
Exposure to better healthcare (future pregnancy)
Professional growth
Space to build new dreams
Under "Cons":
Distance from Danika
Disruption of shared rhythm
Time zone differences
Risk of growing apart
She touched the last line, eyes moist. "You already knew."
"I always know what matters most," he said. "I just wanted to be sure you did."
She slid the paper back to him. "Then let's decide—not just for the job, but for us."
They scribbled on napkins.
They laughed through tears.
They argued gently about logistics.
And when the sky turned deep navy and the café emptied around them, they leaned across the table—foreheads pressed together, the decision made not in words, but in willingness.
Three weeks later…
At the airport, Danika hugged him tight, arms wrapped around him like a tether she didn't want to release.
"You come back to me," she whispered.
Mike nodded, voice thick. "Every chance I get."
She tucked something into his jacket pocket. "Don't open it until you land."
He kissed her, deep and steady.
And then he walked away, through the gates, toward the unknown.
Twelve hours later…
Mike sat in a London hotel room, jet-lagged and hollow. He finally pulled the note from his pocket.
It read:
"Home isn't a place, Mike. It's a decision. Wherever we decide to be 'us,' I'll meet you there."
—Danika
He closed his eyes, heart both aching and full.
Chapter Seventy-Eight: The Distance Between
Three weeks. That's how long it had been since the offer landed in Mike's inbox. Three weeks of sleepless nights, endless conversations, and an emotional tug-of-war that neither he nor Danika had anticipated would stretch them this far.
The letter from the Lagos-based recruitment firm that linked Mike with the UK-based software agency lay folded on the bedside table—creased at the corners, read a hundred times, but still carrying the weight of a new life.
Danika stood by the open window of their apartment, the morning breeze playing with the edge of her satin robe. Her thoughts were louder than the city noise outside.
They hadn't yet decided. The job required Mike to be in Manchester for at least a year—remote work was not an option. It meant a good salary, corporate housing, paid travel. Everything they had once prayed for. But it also meant being away from her.
Mike walked out of the bathroom, towel over his shoulder, and paused when he saw her staring blankly into the street.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
Danika didn't answer right away. When she turned, her eyes were heavy. "I don't know how we're supposed to do this. It's not just about trust, Mike. It's about... waking up alone. Living apart. It's about starting a life I thought we were building together."
He walked to her, wrapped his arms around her waist. "I know. I've been asking myself the same things."
Silence hung between them, until Danika rested her head on his shoulder. "Do you want to go?"
He didn't lie. "Yes... and no. I want to grow. I want us to grow. But I don't want to do it at the cost of losing this."
Later that afternoon, they went to visit her mother. The old woman, who had once disapproved of Mike's uncertain income, now welcomed him with soft eyes and herbal tea. She watched them from across the room with quiet intuition.
"You both have built something strong," she said as she placed a tray down. "But strength isn't tested in easy seasons. Sometimes distance teaches us the value of what we have."
Danika looked at her mother with a mix of surprise and frustration. "So, you're saying he should go?"
"I'm saying don't let fear make the decision for you," her mother replied calmly.
Back home, Danika lay curled on the couch, while Mike drafted pros and cons on a notepad.
Financial security.
Career growth.
Loneliness.
Risk of detachment.
Long-term gain.
She sat up, her voice cracking the quiet. "If you go, promise me one thing."
"Anything."
"Don't forget who we are."
He looked up, eyes locking with hers. "I'd carry us with me."
That night, she held onto him longer than usual. As if imprinting the feel of his skin, the sound of his breath, the heat of his presence into memory.
They hadn't decided yet. But something had shifted.
They were no longer just discussing if he should go.
They were beginning to figure out how to survive if he did.