The apartment felt hollow without him.
Danika sat on the edge of their bed—her bed now, technically—surrounded by the silence Mike had left behind. The fan hummed lazily above her, the curtains swayed with the breeze, and somewhere down the street, a radio played a highlife song she used to hum while cooking. But none of it filled the void.
His scent still clung to the pillows. A mix of cedarwood and the lemon balm soap he used religiously. His toothbrush stood stubbornly in the holder, untouched. The shaving gel remained half-used. His house slippers rested beneath the reading chair, precisely where he last kicked them off.
Three days.
That's how long it had been.
Not long by calendar standards. But when you're in love, time takes on a new form. It stretches in strange directions—every second a reminder of absence, every minute a yearning, every hour an echo of a heartbeat that used to be close.
Her phone buzzed.
Mike: Landed safely. Still hate airplane food. But the sky over Manchester is beautiful. Looks like hope.
Danika smiled faintly, tears catching in her lashes. She clicked the microphone and recorded a voice note.
"Good. You made it. Don't forget to sleep—you get cranky when you don't."
A pause.
"I miss you."
She sent it. Then sat with the phone on her lap, fingers wrapped around it like it might warm her skin the way his hands used to.
On the other side of the world, Mike sat in his flat—a minimal, white-walled company apartment where the furniture smelled new and sterile. He lay on the lower bunk, the mattress firm beneath his back, listening to her voice on loop. The sound filled the room in a way nothing else could.
He closed his eyes.
He could almost hear her walking through the kitchen, humming. Almost feel her foot nudging his leg under the table, teasing him about the pepper in his stew. Almost smell her shea butter lotion.
Almost.
They had agreed to a routine.
Their digital lifeline.
7AM Port Harcourt. 6AM Manchester.
They would text. A simple "Good morning" or "What's your day look like?"
9PM Port Harcourt. 8PM Manchester.
They'd call. Sometimes video, sometimes just voice—depending on signal and moods.
Sundays were for "virtual dates."
Headphones in. Dinner at the same time. Pretending they were still at the same table, clinking glasses through the screen, laughing at nothing and everything.
They even synced their alarms just to feel connected. Mike's ringtone was her laughter. Danika's was the recording of him whispering, "You've got this, baby."
The first week was... bittersweet.
There were good moments. Familiar laughter crackling through the line. Inside jokes. Storytime recaps of their days. Danika would tell him about eccentric customers at the salon; Mike would describe his new team—a mix of accents and personalities, everyone surprisingly warm.
But nothing compared to touch. To skin. To the way she would kiss his shoulder before he fell asleep. To the way he would wrap his arm around her waist in the mornings, even before opening his eyes.
Distance, they discovered, was not just space. It was an ache.
Still, Danika threw herself into work. She began a mini-renovation at the salon, fueled by energy she didn't know she had. She changed the curtains, repainted the front wall, and added pastel cushions to the waiting chairs. Business picked up again. Women came not just for hair, but for comfort.
She started a "Before He Comes Back" journal, documenting daily progress, hopes, and small triumphs. She decorated the first page with pressed hibiscus petals and wrote:
"I'm still here. Still building. Still believing."
Mike worked like a machine. His mind absorbed protocols, systems, timelines. He learned the company culture, shared awkward jokes with his roommate, and grew comfortable navigating the new rhythm of the city.
But every keystroke carried her name.
He pinned the smooth, black stone she had given him above his workstation, taped beside a tiny photo of them on the day they signed their first salon lease. He had his phone propped against his monitor, always on silent, always close.
Sometimes he would glance at it and whisper, "Almost there, baby."
But it wasn't all smooth.
Some days, time betrayed them.
Calls dropped mid-laughter. Messages went undelivered. One night, Mike forgot about their video dinner, caught in an emergency product sprint. The clock hit 9PM in Port Harcourt. Danika sat at the table with a plate of jollof rice and fried plantain—her lips glossed, her scarf tied the way he loved.
He never called.
An hour later, she blew out the candles and turned off her data.
The next morning, she sent a cold reply to his check-in.
Danika: Hope you're well.
Mike felt the weight of it immediately. The chill. The distance within the distance. He called. No answer. He called again. Nothing.
Finally, he sent a voice message:
"Baby, I'm sorry. I messed up. Not with what I did—but with how I made you feel. You're not an afterthought. You're the reason I'm doing any of this. Please don't go quiet on me. I need your voice more than I need food."
That night, Danika cried in the shower.
Not because she doubted his love.
But because this version of love demanded too much patience, too much grace.
Later, she replied:
"It hurt. That's all. But I hear you."
They spoke later that night. Not to fix it. But to understand it. They talked about managing expectations, about forgiving faster, about how distance had changed the way they communicated.
"We're going to get through this," Danika said softly, her face blurred through the video.
Mike blinked fast. "We are."
Weeks passed.
And slowly, they found a rhythm.
Danika discovered comfort in the smallest things—a text from him before she unlocked the salon, a photo of his office coffee with a note: "Tastes like regret. Miss your cappuccino more."
She started hosting small "self-love" circles on Friday evenings with clients. They'd drink zobo and talk about healing, ambition, and waiting for good men who actually return. Mike's name came up more than once—affectionately called "the Unicorn" by her clients.
Mike began attending a Nigerian student fellowship on weekends. Not for religion, but for closeness. For a voice that sounded like home. He taught a workshop on UX design and smiled when someone asked, "Na your babe wey own that salon for PH?"
Danika's brother visited one afternoon, bringing groceries and warm laughter.
"You dey alright?" he asked, noticing her quieter spirit.
"I'm good," she smiled. "Love stretches, but it hasn't snapped."
On the last Sunday of the month, they celebrated their "Distance Anniversary."
One month apart.
Mike sent a playlist titled "Still Us." Danika baked plantain muffins—the first thing they ever cooked together. They laughed, reminisced, and even cried a little.
Mike played guitar over Zoom, fumbling through her favorite tune.
Danika danced in her living room, eyes closed, arms swaying, imagining he was watching.
For a few moments, the world felt small again.
Just them.
As the chapter of distance unfolded, Danika began to see herself more clearly.
She wasn't just waiting. She was growing.
She signed a new lease for a bigger space beside the salon—for skincare services.
She hired two apprentices.
She enrolled in an online business development course.
"I want him to come back and find more than he left," she wrote in her journal.
And Mike?
He got promoted.
Only six weeks in, his team lead pulled him aside and said, "You think in systems, but you code with empathy. That's rare."
He smiled, thinking of Danika.
There were still hard days.
Nights when the video call froze on her blurry face.
Mornings when her messages were read but not replied until noon.
But their hearts beat in sync.
Two clocks. One heart.
On their next Sunday date, Danika looked up through the screen and asked, "When are you coming home?"
Mike smiled slowly, lifting the stone in his hand.
"Soon," he said. "Sooner than we think. And I'm bringing home more than just memories—I'm bringing a better me."
Danika pressed her fingers to the screen, voice low.
"I'm keeping your side of the bed warm."
He winked.
"I knew you would."