The apartment was silent, but Adaora's mind wasn't.
It roared. It howled. It refused to rest.
She lay sprawled on her bed, staring at the ceiling, the dim outline of the fan above her barely visible in the dark. The fan spun slowly, lazily, and she counted its rotations the way a child counts sheep. But the numbers only dragged her deeper into thought, not into sleep.
Her chest ached with the same hollow pain she had carried for weeks, a sharp reminder that Tobi wasn't here. That his laughter no longer filled these walls. That the promise of forever had evaporated like smoke.
The clock on her nightstand blinked mercilessly: 2:13 a.m. She turned to her side, pressing her face into the pillow as if burying herself in its cotton could erase him from her thoughts. Five minutes later, she peeked again. 2:19.
Each minute stretched into eternity.
She wanted sleep. Desperately. But her body betrayed her, keeping her trapped in the long, cruel hours of the night.
Finally, with a frustrated sigh, she pushed the covers away and sat up. The sheets felt cold against her legs, though her body was warm with restlessness. She dragged herself out of bed, feet brushing against the wooden floor, and shuffled into the living room.
The boxes were still there. Piled against the wall, filled with pieces of her life she couldn't bring herself to unpack—or throw away. A sweater he had once draped over her shoulders. A chipped mug they had bought together at a street fair. His books, untouched, because she couldn't bear to open them and find his handwriting in the margins.
In the dim light filtering through the curtains, those boxes looked like silent graves. Graves she wasn't ready to bury.
She collapsed onto the couch, pulling the nearest blanket around her shoulders. The silence of the room pressed down heavily. It wasn't peaceful silence—it was the suffocating kind, thick with memory. She wanted to scream just to hear a sound.
Instead, she reached for the journal lying on the coffee table. It was a gift from Kemi, who had insisted that writing might help. "When your thoughts get too loud, pour them onto paper," she had said. At the time, Adaora had laughed it off.
But tonight, she was desperate.
She flipped it open to a blank page and picked up a pen. Her hand trembled as she wrote.
I can't sleep. My body is tired, but my mind won't stop. Every time I close my eyes, I hear his voice. I see his smile. I remember his promises. I hate that I still remember them. I hate that I still want to believe them. I don't know how to be myself without him. I don't know who I am anymore. I feel broken. Scattered. Afraid. I wonder if I'll ever be whole again.
Her eyes blurred as she stared at the words. Her tears fell freely, smudging the ink until the letters bled across the page like wounds that refused to close.
She pressed the journal to her chest and curled into herself. And then, as if her body could no longer contain the weight of it all, she broke. The sobs came loud, raw, and unrestrained. They ripped through the silence of the apartment, echoing off the walls.
She cried until her throat was sore, until her chest burned, until she felt emptied out but still heavy.
When the tears slowed, she dragged herself into the kitchen. She poured a glass of water, held it in her hands, then set it down untouched. Her body wanted nothing, yet it longed for everything—comfort, peace, sleep, him.
Her phone buzzed, startling her in the silence.
It was Kemi. At nearly 3:00 a.m.
The message read:
"Are you awake?"
A hollow laugh escaped Adaora's lips. Of course I'm awake. She typed back:
"Yes."
The reply came instantly:
"Me too. Heartbreak has bad timing, but friendship doesn't. Call me if you want."
Adaora stared at the words, her thumb hovering over the call button. She wanted to hear Kemi's voice, to feel less alone. But the thought of saying it out loud—He's gone. He left me. He doesn't love me anymore—was unbearable.
Typing was easier. Safer.
"I can't talk. But thank you."
A red heart appeared seconds later.
Adaora placed the phone on the table, and for the first time all night, her lips curved faintly. The smallest of smiles, almost imperceptible, but real. Kemi's quiet presence was enough.
She returned to the couch, wrapping herself tighter in the blanket. Her journal lay open beside her, the ink still wet. She reached for it again, and this time, her words shifted slightly.
Tonight feels endless. But maybe mornings are different. Maybe one day, I'll wake up and it won't hurt this much. Maybe there's a version of me that survives this. I don't believe it yet, but I want to.
Her pen paused. She reread the words, surprised at herself. They weren't hope, not really. More like the faint shadow of it. A whisper. A thread.
By 4:00 a.m., Adaora's body finally began to surrender. She lay down on the couch, blanket pulled up to her chin. The exhaustion of crying, of thinking, of writing, dragged her eyelids closed.
Sleep didn't come gently. It was shallow, restless, haunted by fragments of memory. But it was something.
And just before she drifted off completely, one thought pulsed faintly through her mind:
If nights without sleep can feel endless, then mornings might bring something new.
It wasn't peace. Not yet. But it was the beginning of it.
And tonight, that was enough.