Adaora sat on the edge of her bed, unmoving, her eyes fixed on the bare patch of wall above her dresser. It was strange how emptiness could feel so loud. Just yesterday, that space had been crowded with photographs: her and Tobi smiling at the Lekki beach, drenched in saltwater and sunshine; the blurry but precious selfies they took at traffic lights; the picture of them holding ice cream cones on her twenty-fourth birthday, laughing so hard that the photo came out crooked.
Now it was gone. Every frame she had carefully arranged lay face-down in a cardboard box at the corner of her room. She couldn't bear to throw them out, but she also couldn't stand the sight of them. So she'd packed them away, leaving the wall white, cold, and accusing.
Her phone lit up on the nightstand. A notification. She didn't need to check; she knew it wasn't him. He had been clear last night—too clear.
"I don't think this is working anymore, Ada… I can't give you what you deserve."
The words looped endlessly in her head. Soft words. Gentle, almost apologetic. But soft words could cut deeper than knives. He hadn't shouted, hadn't blamed her, hadn't even cried. He had just… left. And somehow that hurt more.
Adaora dragged in a shaky breath and pressed her palms against her eyes. It felt like if she let go, the dam would burst again, and she was too tired to cry anymore. The tears had already soaked her pillow through the night. She had cried until her throat burned, until her chest felt bruised. She was empty now—or maybe just numb.
The air in the room was thick, heavy with silence. Even the city outside seemed muted. Normally she could hear the distant honking of danfos, the chatter of neighbors, the street hawker who always shouted "Gala, Gala, Gala!" with enthusiasm. But this morning it felt like the whole world had moved a few steps away, leaving her in a vacuum.
She looked around. Everywhere she turned, there were ghosts of him. The coffee mugs he insisted on buying in pairs, claiming "One for you, one for me, so we never drink alone." The playlist he'd made for rainy days, still queued up on her speaker. The jacket he had forgotten last week, slung casually over her chair, still carrying the faint, familiar scent of his cologne.
Her chest tightened painfully. How could a room feel so full of someone and yet so utterly empty of them at the same time?
The phone buzzed again. This time she checked. A message from Kemi.
"Checking in. How's your heart?"
Adaora swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as she typed. She started with: "I'm okay." Deleted it. Tried: "I'll survive." Deleted that too. Finally, she let her truth spill into the simplest word she could manage:
"Broken."
The reply came almost instantly.
"Then let it be broken. Don't rush. I'm here."
That was all. No forced cheer, no useless advice, just presence. And that—somehow—was enough to undo her.
The tears came again, hot and relentless. She pressed her face into her hands, her shoulders shaking. She didn't even try to hold them back this time. She wept for the years she had given, for the future she had imagined, for the girl she had been just yesterday who still believed in forever.
Through the sobs, a whisper rose inside her, fragile and trembling:
Maybe broken things can be mended. Maybe I can be, too.
She wasn't ready to believe it yet, but the thought lingered, like a small candle in a very dark room.
When she finally collapsed back onto her bed, exhausted, dawn had begun to creep through her curtains. The light fell across her face, gentle and unassuming. Outside, life carried on—the city waking, birds chattering, the world refusing to stop just because her heart had.
And maybe that was the cruelest part. Or maybe, someday, it would be the healing part.
For now, Adaora closed her swollen eyes and let the silence hold her.