Amara didn't move in — not all at once. It was quiet at first. Her scarf appeared on Dimeji's chair. Her pepper grinder found its way into his kitchen drawer. Her toothbrush leaned beside his in the cup near the sink.
Little things.
Safe things.
And yet, they carried weight. Weight that Dimeji noticed every morning — in the way his space smelled of ginger and vanilla, or how her laughter echoed through the once-empty studio.
One evening, she arrived with a bag of fabric scraps and an idea. "I want to sew aprons for the kids in your Saturday class."
Dimeji watched her arrange the colors, each piece vibrant and alive. "You always find ways to make things more beautiful."
She shrugged, brushing hair from her eyes. "I think beauty makes struggle feel lighter."
He took her hand, held it to his chest. "You make me feel lighter."
---
The days stretched with warmth, but the nights grew louder — not with fights, but with questions they hadn't answered yet.
"How long are we going to live between two places?" Amara asked one night, curled against his chest.
"Until one of them feels like home for both of us," Dimeji replied.
She didn't respond right away. Her silence lingered — not angry, but cautious.
"There's something about my kiosk," she said finally. "It's more than just work. It's... where I found my name again."
Dimeji understood. His own studio held the ghosts of every painting that had healed him.
"You don't have to give it up," he said. "We'll make something that holds both of us."
---
But the real thunder rolled in the form of a call.
A well-known Lagos gallery had seen Dimeji's recent work through a student's social media post. They wanted him to come to Lagos — not just for a showcase, but for a six-month residency.
All expenses paid.
A solo exhibition promised at the end.
He read the email twice, hands trembling. Amara walked in just as he leaned against the wall, stunned.
"What is it?" she asked.
He passed her the phone.
She read it, then looked up. "Dimeji… this is everything you wanted."
"Is it?" he asked. "I wanted peace. I found it with you."
She placed the phone down. "And I want you to have your dreams. We both need to become more than just what we are right now."
"But it's six months," he said, voice breaking.
She stepped closer. "Then we learn to hold each other in distance."
"I'm scared I'll lose this."
"You won't," she whispered. "Not if we choose each other — even from afar."
---
That night, they stood on the rooftop of his building, the city below humming gently. Rain threatened in the clouds again, but hadn't yet fallen.
"I don't want to be the reason you turn this down," she said softly.
"You're the reason I believe I can survive it," he replied.
And she kissed him — not as goodbye, but as promise.
---
In the following days, Amara helped him prepare. She packed his brushes, labeled his supplies, folded his clothes with care. She slipped her photo into his sketchbook — the one he'd taken of her laughing, flour on her face.
"You'll need this," she said, tucking it between the pages.
The day of his departure, the rain came.
Not heavy.
Not cruel.
Just gentle enough to blur the edges of the taxi windows as it drove him away.
Amara stood on the roadside, soaked but smiling. She didn't cry until the car disappeared from view.