The city buzzed outside his penthouse window, but Chuka Okoye was somewhere else entirely.
He sat on the edge of his leather couch, elbows resting on his knees, eyes staring into a glass of whisky that remained untouched in his hand. The lights in his living room were dim, casting long shadows across polished floors and high ceilings. Outside, the hum of Lagos nightlife vibrated like a second heartbeat. Cars honked in the distance. Music from a rooftop bar drifted up to his window, a slow rhythm that reminded him of nights he would rather forget.
Tonight, everything reminded him of her.
Amaka.
She had walked into that boardroom like she owned the world. Like time had not passed. Like the weight of what they once were had already been boxed, labeled, and tucked away in a part of her life he no longer had access to.
And maybe he did not.
But to him, she still mattered. Too much.
Chuka leaned back and ran a hand through his short, neatly trimmed hair. His chest tightened as her voice replayed in his mind, cool and calm, dressed in professionalism and pain.
"There is no us. Not anymore."
How could he blame her?
He had walked away without giving her a chance to say goodbye. He had run to Canada on a full scholarship like it was the only thing that mattered, chasing his ambition without once looking back. He had promised himself he would call. That he would write. That once he was settled, he would bring her to join him.
None of that had happened.
He had allowed distance to become silence. And silence had become something permanent.
Back then, it made sense. He was a poor boy with dreams too big for the streets of Bariga. The world had handed him a ticket out, and he had taken it with both hands. In his mind, leaving was noble. Smart. The sacrifice of a man who wanted to become something first, before offering anything to the woman he loved.
But in truth, it was fear.
Fear that she would become a weakness. Fear that she would see through him, past the confidence and ambition, and into the boy who was afraid of never being enough.
Now, years later, she stood before him as powerful as ever.
Beautiful. Composed. Unreadable.
And he had never felt smaller.
Chuka stood and walked over to the large glass window. The city sprawled beneath him, alive with color and chaos. Victoria Island shimmered in the night, full of life and money and people chasing whatever dreams kept them going.
Just like him.
Or at least, who he used to be.
He thought about the first time he saw Amaka.
Flashback: University of Lagos, Five Years Ago
The lecture hall was full. Students murmured over their assignments, copying notes from the whiteboard as the lecturer scrawled his final thoughts. That day, the sun had burned through the windows. Ceiling fans spun lazily above their heads.
Amaka had raised her hand. Her voice, when she spoke, cut through the noise like a blade.
"Sir, with all due respect, I believe your statistics are outdated. That study was published in 2004. A more recent report from UNESCO in 2016 contradicts that conclusion."
Heads turned.
The lecturer blinked.
"Are you challenging me?"
"No sir," she replied, lips curving into the ghost of a smile. "Just offering a correction."
Even then, she had presence. Her energy had pulled him in. There were prettier girls, louder girls. But none had her kind of quiet power. She was like a match struck in darkness — small, sudden, impossible to ignore.
He had followed her out of class.
"Nice speech back there," he had said, falling into step beside her.
She had glanced at him, unimpressed. "It was not a speech. It was a fact."
And just like that, he was hooked.
It had taken three weeks of casual conversation, lending her pens, sharing biscuits between classes, and helping her carry books before she agreed to lunch. Another month passed before she allowed him to kiss her, and when she did, it was like touching fire.
They became inseparable.
He was studying software engineering, she was in mass communication. They balanced each other, he brought order, she brought color. Together, they dreamed of starting their own media tech company. She would handle public relations, branding, communication. He would build the system. He even scribbled names for their future venture in his old notebook.
But life had other plans.
When the full scholarship came from a tech institute in Canada, he only had seventy two hours to accept. There was no time to think. No time to plan.
He remembered standing beneath the tree near the Faculty of Arts building, holding her hand as he broke the news.
"You are just going? Like that?"
"It is for us, Maka. You know this."
"But what happens to us while you are gone?"
He had no answer.
Because he already knew the truth.
He was going alone.
She had cried quietly. She never begged. Never tried to stop him. She only looked at him with wounded pride and nodded. And when he boarded the plane, he left behind more than just his past.
He left her.
And never called.
Never explained.
Not because he stopped loving her.
But because he loved her too much.
Back to Present
Chuka walked back to his study and opened a locked drawer. Inside was a notebook — worn, faded. The same one from his university days. He flipped through the pages filled with formulas, mind maps, and startup ideas.
Then, at the back, in tiny margins, he saw it.
Her name.
Amaka.
Over and over.
Sometimes with hearts.
Sometimes with flames.
Sometimes just her initials, circled again and again as though he could summon her by writing her into his future.
He closed the notebook and sighed.
He had everything now.
Power. Money. Respect.
But in moments like this, he wondered if he had lost the only thing that ever truly mattered.
He pulled out his phone and opened the company email system. Her photo popped up beside her name — Amaka Uche, Senior Communications Consultant. Her expression was formal. Distant. The version of her she had become.
He typed a message.
I know I hurt you. I do not expect anything. But I would like the chance to apologize properly. Dinner this Friday. Just talk. No pressure.
He read the message twice.
Then deleted it.
He could not force his way back. Not after the silence he had given her.
Still, his fingers hovered.
He was not the boy who ran anymore.
He was a man who understood regret.
But she had made it clear.
There was no us. Not anymore.
Elsewhere – Amaka's Apartment
Amaka curled on her bed with her laptop open, though the spreadsheet on the screen had not changed in over thirty minutes. Her room was warm and quiet, except for the soft hum of her air conditioner. She had changed into a cotton shirt and shorts, her hair wrapped in a scarf, but there was no comfort in the routine.
Her mind was loud.
She could still see him — tall, commanding, too composed for a man who had wrecked her once.
She hated that he still had that effect on her.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Ifeoma, her best friend.
Girl, how did it go? Was the client a mess or manageable?
She stared at the screen for a few seconds, then typed back.
The client is Chuka.
There was a pause, then the typing bubble popped up instantly.
Jesus Christ.
Amaka rolled onto her back and sighed.
The irony of fate. After all these years, the man she thought she had buried was now her biggest client.
Of all the companies her firm could land, it had to be OkoyeTech.
Of all the CEOs in Lagos, it had to be him.
She should have told him off. She should have reminded him of how he left. But instead, she had played it cool. She had sat in that room like he was a stranger.
It was exhausting pretending he no longer mattered.
But she had spent years rebuilding herself. Healing. Growing.
She had finished school. Started her career. Traveled. Dated.
Yet no one ever quite fit. No one had that same spark.
That same understanding.
And now he was back. Not as the lost boy with dreams, but as a man with power.
But power did not erase what he did.
It did not erase the silence.
She would be strong. She would be professional.
She would not let herself be dragged back into the mess of what could have been.
Still, deep down, a tiny voice whispered.
What if this time… he stayed?
She shook her head.
No.
Not again.
She shut the laptop, pulled the duvet over herself, and closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, she would see him again.
And tomorrow, she would act like she had never loved him at all.