Morning crept slowly into Adaora's room, sunlight spilling in soft golden stripes across her floor. She blinked awake, the heaviness of the night still clinging to her. The shattered mug lay in the corner, sharp fragments scattered like frozen tears. She had cried herself into exhaustion, her throat raw, her body limp, but she remembered something Adriella had said before she drifted into uneasy sleep:
Maybe it's not about letting go. Maybe it's about carrying him differently.
The words had circled her dreams and followed her into waking.
She sat at her desk, pulling her journal closer. The blank pages stared back at her, daring her to try. For weeks she had scribbled only fragments—pain without form, scattered words that felt as broken as her heart. But this morning she wanted something else. She wanted to speak to him. To bridge the silence.
Her hand trembled as she uncapped the pen. The first lines bled onto the paper.
---
Dear Tobi,
They say grief is love with nowhere to go. I think that's why it spills out of me in tears, in silence, in broken mugs. But today I want it to go somewhere. To you.
Some days I'm angry. I hate you for leaving, even though I know it wasn't your fault. Other days I ache so much I wonder if I'll survive it. And yet… there are moments, tiny ones, where I still feel you close. In laughter. In songs. In faces that look a little like yours.
Adriella says I can carry you differently. I don't fully understand what that means, but I want to try. I don't want to erase you. I don't want to pretend. I want to carry you as light, not only as weight.
Yesterday I laughed. The first real laugh since you left. It felt wrong at first, like betrayal. But then I realized maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was love too — proof that what we had was strong enough to keep me living, not just grieving.
So I'll keep writing. Even if my hands shake. Even if the words blur with tears. This way, you're not gone from me.
Always,
Adaora.
---
Tears blurred her vision, dripping onto the page, smudging the ink into soft stains. But she didn't wipe them away. The tears belonged there, woven into her words, proof of their sincerity.
When she closed the journal, she felt strangely lighter. Not healed, not whole, but as though she had made room in her heart for something besides despair.
Later that day, Adriella urged her to attend her cousin's birthday gathering. "Just for an hour," she said gently. "You don't have to stay long. But being around people might remind you that the world is still turning, and that you're allowed to turn with it."
Adaora hesitated. The thought of facing people — their questions, their pitying looks — filled her with dread. But then she thought of her letter. Carry him differently. Maybe this was one way of trying.
She dressed simply, slipping into a pale blue dress. In the mirror, she barely recognized herself—thinner, paler, eyes shadowed with grief. Still, she forced a small smile. It looked fragile, but it was something.
The gathering was already in full swing when they arrived. Children darted about with balloons, their laughter bubbling through the air. Music pulsed softly in the background, and the scent of jollof rice and fried chicken drifted from the kitchen.
At first, Adaora stayed close to Adriella, greeting familiar faces with polite nods. Relatives embraced her warmly, but their hugs lingered a second too long, filled with unspoken sympathy.
And then came the whispers.
"She still looks so thin…"
"Such a pity. They were so in love."
"Do you think she'll ever move on?"
The words weren't sharp, but they cut anyway. Adaora felt them sink into her skin like nettles, stinging until her throat burned.
Her chest tightened. She excused herself quietly and stepped onto the balcony, gripping the iron railing with both hands. The evening breeze brushed against her cheeks, carrying the sound of distant traffic and the laughter from inside. Below, the city stretched out in lights and shadows, indifferent to her private storm.
She pressed her forehead against the cool metal, eyes squeezed shut. They don't understand. They think grief has a timetable. They don't see that I wake every day with his absence like a stone on my chest.
A soft hand touched her shoulder. Adriella.
Adaora shook her head, her voice trembling. "They all look at me like I'm broken glass. Like I'll shatter if they speak too loud. Or worse… like I should be better by now. How do you heal when people expect you to move on, when you can barely move at all?"
Adriella's voice was steady. "Let them whisper. They don't know your journey. They don't know the nights you've survived, the mornings you've faced when breathing felt impossible. They see only the surface, not the storms."
Adaora's tears slipped free, hot against her cheeks. "I feel so weak, Adriella."
Adriella turned her gently, holding her gaze. "Weakness doesn't look like showing up, Adaora. Weakness would have been staying hidden. You came. You stood in their whispers. You're standing now. That's not weakness. That's courage."
The words struck something deep inside her. For weeks, she had seen only the broken pieces of herself. But maybe there was strength in showing up at all, in surviving when she had thought she couldn't.
She exhaled slowly, the tightness in her chest loosening just a little.
From inside, music swelled louder, and someone's laughter spilled out into the evening air. For once, it didn't feel like a betrayal to stand here, listening. She was still hurting. Still fragile. But also still here.
And that counted for something.