The night before the breakup played in Adaora's mind like a film she couldn't stop or rewind. It returned again and again—each word, each silence, each expression on his face—like a punishment. She had replayed it so many times that it was no longer just memory, it was torment.
It had begun with stillness. The kind of stillness that makes your skin prickle, that presses into the corners of a room and tells you something is about to break.
They had been on the couch together, the TV flickering in the background. A Nollywood movie was playing, but neither of them was watching. A bowl of popcorn sat untouched between them. Adaora had curled her legs beneath her, waiting for him to laugh at one of the exaggerated scenes like he usually did. But he didn't.
Tobi's phone was in his hands, but he wasn't scrolling. He would set it down, pick it up again, then tap the screen only to turn it off immediately. His leg bounced nervously, the rhythm uneven, restless.
Adaora noticed, her stomach tightening. "Is something wrong?" she asked finally. Her voice came out lighter than she felt, careful, as though speaking too loudly might make whatever was fragile between them shatter.
He didn't answer right away. He rubbed his palms together, staring down at the floor. When he finally looked at her, his eyes were heavy, shadowed, as if they carried more weight than they should.
"Ada," he said softly, almost too softly. "I need to tell you something."
Her chest clenched. The way he said her name—like it was both a plea and an ending—made her pulse quicken. "What is it?" she whispered.
He exhaled slowly, the air leaving him as though it had been trapped inside for weeks. "I don't think this is working anymore."
The words detonated in the air between them. Adaora froze, her breath caught halfway in her throat.
"I don't…" She shook her head, confused, clinging desperately to denial. "What do you mean?"
Tobi's shoulders slumped. "I love you. You know I do. But…" He paused, as if searching for words that wouldn't slice her open. "…I can't give you what you deserve. I don't see the future the way I thought I did."
The world tilted. The couch beneath her felt like it was sinking. She searched his face for some sign that this was a joke, a mistake, a bad dream. But his eyes held no cruelty, no anger. Just sorrow. And somehow, that hurt the most.
Her lips parted, trembling. "We can fix it. Whatever it is—we can fix it. Tell me what to do, Tobi. Please."
He reached for her hand, his touch warm and familiar, but laced with finality. "It's not about fixing. It's about letting go. I don't want to keep holding you when I can't promise forever."
The word forever felt like a knife. It had been their promise, their anchor, the word they whispered into the quiet of their nights. Now it was a weapon, and he was the one wielding it.
"Don't say that," she cried, tears spilling fast. "We are forever. You told me that. You promised—"
"I know," he said quickly, his own voice breaking for the first time. His eyes glistened, but he looked away, blinking furiously as though he could keep his tears inside. "I meant it then. But forever… changed."
Adaora's heart cracked wide open. The room spun, and her body felt too small to contain the grief flooding it. She wanted to scream. To shake him. To demand he fight for them the way she was fighting in that moment. Instead, her voice came out as a broken whisper:
"So that's it? Just like that?"
He didn't answer. His silence was confirmation enough.
Her sobs ripped through the quiet, raw and unrestrained. She clutched at his shirt, desperate, her nails digging into the fabric. "Don't do this. Please, Tobi. Don't leave me. Don't leave us."
His face twisted with pain, but he gently pried her hands away. "Ada…" His voice shook, barely audible. "If I stay, it will hurt you more in the long run. I can't pretend when I know my heart isn't where it should be."
She stared at him, her tears blurring his face. "So your heart isn't with me anymore?"
He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "It's not that simple."
"It is," she snapped, her voice sharp through the sobs. "It is that simple. Either you want me or you don't. Either you stay or you leave."
The silence that followed was worse than any answer.
Adaora felt something collapse inside her, a weight so heavy she could barely breathe. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around herself as if she could hold the fragments together. Tobi reached out, his hand brushing her shoulder.
"Don't," she choked out, recoiling. "Don't touch me. Please."
The hurt that flashed across his face nearly broke her again. He withdrew his hand, clasping it tightly in his lap. For the next few minutes, words spilled out of him—apologies, explanations, fragments of thought—but they barely reached her through the roar of pain in her chest.
All she heard was the truth: he was leaving.
Finally, he stood. The sound of his keys jangling in his hand was deafening. He hesitated by the door, his shoulders hunched as though he wanted to turn back. But he didn't.
He looked at her one last time. His lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, he turned the handle and slipped out quietly, closing the door behind him.
The sound of that door closing was the loudest sound Adaora had ever heard.
Now, hours later, sitting in the half-empty apartment, that sound echoed endlessly in her head. She pressed her face into her hands, hearing it again and again, each repetition carving the truth deeper into her heart.
The cruelest part wasn't betrayal. It wasn't anger. It was that the last conversation they had wasn't ugly or violent. It was full of love—love that wasn't strong enough to stay.
And somehow, that made it unbearable.