You're not sick. You're just confused."
That's what Mama said the first time she caught me staring too long at Adaeze's lips.
They said it was a phase. A bad thought. Something I could pray away.
So I did. I prayed until my knees bruised. Fasted until my stomach growled like demons lived inside it. I memorized verses, scrubbed my soul, whispered "I'm sorry" every time a pretty girl smiled.
But nothing changed. The thoughts stayed. The feelings grew.
So I learned how to hide.
At school, I laughed when the other girls talked about boys. I smiled when they teased me about being too quiet. I said "maybe one day" when they asked if I had a crush.
At home, I lowered my eyes, folded my hands, and tried to be the daughter Mama could love.
---
"Amara, come downstairs! Someone wants to meet you!"
Mama's voice rang sharp and expectant, unbending. The house went quiet after she called, as if it was holding its breath, waiting for mine.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, smoothed my skirt, and whispered one last prayer.
Don't let me disappoint her today.
---
The boy sitting in the living room smelled of too much cologne and spoke with too much confidence. His name was Ebuka. Mama's smile stretched wide, desperate.
"She's shy," she told him, laughing like it was charming.
He tried to make me laugh. I tried to pretend. My fingers dug into my palm beneath the table. Sweat beaded on my skin, stubborn against the cold air, as if it was proof of what I couldn't hide.
His eyes were kind, but I felt nothing. No spark. No nerves. No flutter.
I forced a smile anyway. Mama looked proud. Her pride wrapped around me like a chain — shining on the outside, heavy underneath.
---
Later that night, I lay awake in the dark. My room was quiet, but my thoughts were loud.
You did good today. You acted normal. You're getting better.
Then why did it feel like I was disappearing?
I rolled onto my side and stared at the wall. My heart felt too big for my chest, too full of something I wasn't allowed to name.
On my desk, the bracelet Adaeze had given me months ago caught the light. I pretended not to see it.
But I remembered her laugh, the way her hand brushed mine in the corridor, the way her voice said my name like a song.
My cheeks burned.
I bit my pillow to stop myself from crying out loud. God, what's wrong with me?
I pressed my hands to my chest, trying to push it all down — the longing, the fear, the truth clawing its way out.
The night air smelled of rain, but inside me everything burned.
And somewhere deep inside, a whisper stirred. A voice that didn't sound like mine.
You can't keep running forever.