Four years ago.
Fiorella could still remember the smell of that room damp walls, detergent that never quite washed out of the sheets, the faint sting of kerosene from the stove downstairs. It was crammed with second-hand bunks, chipped paint, and kids who had learned early that no one was coming to save them.
Some of them were weeks away from eighteen. Too old for the orphanage. Too young to know where the hell to go next.
Fiorella sat cross-legged on the floor, back against her bunk, gnawing at a pen cap. Anna sat beside her, knees hugged to her chest. They'd just come back from their shift at the small bakery down the street, hair smelling like bread they couldn't afford to buy.
"You know they'll kick us out next week, right?" Anna's voice was flat. "No goodbyes. Just out."
Fiorella tapped the pen against her knee. "I know."
"You don't look like you know."
Fiorella tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling, cracked with damp stains. "I know. I just… don't feel like dying about it yet."
Across the room, one of the older boys, Samuel, folded his work uniform into a neat pile. He'd been saving every naira he earned cleaning cars. "Me and three others are splitting rent. Tiny place, but it's something."
"Something," Anna repeated, hollow.
"Better than sleeping under the bridge," Samuel muttered. He didn't look at them.
Fiorella shoved her bangs out of her face. "We can do that too. Me and you. We've been saving."
Anna's laugh was sharp. "Saving? Fi, we barely scrape school fees. Your savings can buy us one mattress, maybe."
"One mattress is still something," Fiorella said stubbornly. "We'll sleep head to toe."
Anna groaned, burying her face in her knees. "Why do you always make it sound easy?"
"Because if I don't, I'll cry. And I don't want to give them the satisfaction." Fiorella's jaw tightened.
The room fell quiet. Just the creak of bunks, the hum of the night outside, traffic horns far away. Kids packing, whispering, pretending they weren't terrified.
Finally, Anna whispered, "After high school, that's it, isn't it? No more classes. Just… whatever scraps of work we find."
Fiorella swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight. "Yeah."
"And you're okay with that?"
"No," Fiorella said honestly. "But I'm not gonna let it break me either." She nudged Anna's arm. "We'll figure something out. People survive worse."
Anna looked at her then tired eyes, mouth pressed tight and for the first time, Fiorella saw how scared she really was.
"Promise?" Anna whispered.
Fiorella didn't even hesitate. "Promise."
The word hung there like a thin rope stretched over a cliff. They both knew promises didn't mean much in their world. But it was something to hold.
Fiorella would never forget that night. The way the orphanage walls felt like they were closing in. The weight of the future pressing against their skin. The taste of fear and cheap bread.
Four years later, sitting in Christal's kitchen, Fiorella could still feel it in her bone.
Present day.
Fiorella slung her backpack over one shoulder and shoved her way down the crowded street. Horns blared. A pedestrian almost smacked her face her but she waved him off without slowing. Her sneakers scuffed the dusty pavement, weaving between students, office workers, hustlers with no time to breathe.
Mo Ye, I miss you.
The thought landed bitter in her chest. She clicked her tongue like she could spit it out, but it stayed. Heavy. Stubborn.
She was the one who wanted this life a life without him. Freedom, space, her own rhythm. And yet her dreams refused to obey. Every night, almost without fail, he was there. Not tender. Not smiling. Just Mo Ye, throwing sharp words at her. Fighting her. Arguing over things she could never remember when she woke.
Sometimes she woke with her fists clenched, chest tight, like she had actually gone ten rounds with him.
Fiorella let out a laugh, sudden and short, startling the woman walking beside her. "Sorry," Fiorella muttered, picking up her pace. She pressed her earbuds in, but didn't bother to play music. The city was already loud enough.
The bus stop loomed ahead a rusted shelter tagged with peeling posters and old election flyers. A line had formed, half-patient, half-ready to riot if a bus dared pass without stopping. She joined the line, backpack slung tight against her.
She checked her phone she wasn't surprised no messages of course not from him...not from anyone she wanted anyways.
She shoved the phone back into her pocket and rocked on her heels. Why now? Why him?
Her laugh from earlier softened into something smaller, almost a sigh. She rubbed her temples. The street heat pressed down like a weight.
The bus screeched to a halt and People shoved forward, elbowing. Fiorella went with the current, heart beating fast. Not from the rush from that single, gnawing thought that refused to let go.
Mo Ye, get out of my head.