The car became a fixture. For three days, Emmanuel and the sleek black sedan were a silent, unwavering presence outside the hospital. He drove Mina home to shower, to the market for fresh fruit for Lara, and waited without complaint, a monument of patience in the chaotic Lagos traffic.
And Adams came. Every evening, just as the sun began to dip below the skyline, painting the world in hues of orange and gold, he would appear in the doorway of Lara's room. He never came empty-handed. A book of poetry for Mina. A delicate shawl for Lara to ward off the hospital's chill. Containers of exquisite food from places whose names Mina didn't recognize.
He never stayed long, but his visits were the anchor of Mina's day. Their conversations stretched, moving beyond polite pleasantries. They debated the headlines in his magazine, argued about the best Nigerian authors, and shared childhood stories. He made her laugh, a sound that was becoming less foreign to her own ears. In that sterile room, a fragile, beautiful world was being built, and Mina felt herself being drawn into its orbit.
Lara watched it all with a recovering body but a increasingly troubled mind. Her strength returned, and with it, her protective skepticism.
"He's here again," she murmured one evening, hearing his familiar knock on the door before it opened.
Adams entered, this time holding a small pot of deep purple orchids. "For the room," he said, placing them on the windowsill where they caught the dying light. "It needs some life in here."
"You're too generous, Adams," Lara said, her voice polite but cool. "You'll spoil us."
"Some things deserve to be spoiled," he replied easily, his eyes flicking to Mina, who was trying and failing to hide her pleasure at the flowers.
He stayed a little longer that night, telling a story about a disastrous interview with a reclusive billionaire that had them both laughing. But when his phone buzzed—a persistent, urgent sound—he sighed and stood to leave.
"The board awaits," he said with a theatrical grimace. He nodded to Lara. "It's good to see color in your cheeks." Then he turned to Mina. "Walk me out?"
It was a simple request, but it felt weighted. Lara's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Mina's heart gave a nervous flutter. She nodded and followed him into the hallway.
They walked in silence towards the elevators, the distance feeling both too short and impossibly long. The connection between them was a palpable thing, a live wire humming with everything left unsaid. He pushed the button, and the doors slid open immediately, revealing an empty car.
He turned to her, and the professional editor was gone. In his place was just a man, his expression unguarded, his eyes holding a warmth that made her breath catch.
"Mina," he began, his voice softer, intimate. "These visits… they've become the best part of my day."
Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. The precipice she had both feared and longed for.
"Mine too," she whispered, the confession leaving her lips before she could stop it.
He smiled, a slow, genuine smile that reached his eyes. He took a small step closer, reducing the space between them to nothing. The air crackled. She could smell the subtle, clean scent of his cologne, see the faint tiredness around his eyes from a long day. He was going to kiss her. She wanted him to. More than she had ever wanted anything.
But the image of another man's face, kind and familiar, flashed behind her eyes. A promise made. A life planned. It was a bucket of cold water on the spark between them.
She flinched back as if burned.
The change was instantaneous. Adams's smile vanished, replaced by confusion and a flicker of hurt. He straightened up, the moment shattered.
"Mina? What is it?"
The elevator doors began to slide shut. He threw out an arm to stop them, his gaze fixed on her, intense and searching.
Tears welled in her eyes, born of confusion, guilt, and a profound sense of loss for something that hadn't even happened. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold.
"I can't," she choked out, looking at the floor, unable to bear the look in his eyes. "Adams… there's… there's someone else."
The words hung in the air between them, ugly and final. The hum of the hospital seemed to fade into a dull roar in her ears.
She expected anger. Withdrawal. The end of the beautiful, fleeting dream.
He was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was low, careful, devoid of the warmth that had been there seconds before. It was the voice of the editor, assessing facts.
"I see," he said. The words were neutral, but the pain in his eyes was raw and unmistakable. "Is it… serious?"
It was the question she dreaded. She forced herself to meet his gaze, to offer him the honesty he deserved. "His name is Tunde. He's… he's a good man. A teacher, like me. Our families… they expect it. We've been… understanding each other for a year." The phrase "understanding each other" sounded so weak, so inadequate compared to the storm of feeling Adams had unleashed in her heart.
He absorbed this, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. He nodded slowly, processing. The elevator doors tried to close again, and this time, he let them. He stepped inside, but turned to face her, holding them open with his hand.
"Thank you," he said, the words so unexpected they stole the air from her lungs.
"Thank you?" she repeated, bewildered. "For what?"
"For your honesty," he said, his gaze unwavering. "It's a rare and precious thing. Most people would have let that…" He gestured vaguely between them, to the moment that had almost been. "...happen, and dealt with the consequences later. You stopped it. That takes integrity."
He wasn't angry. He was… respecting her. The realization was more painful than any rejection could have been.
"I don't expect anything to change," she said hurriedly, the words tumbling out in a desperate attempt to somehow salvage… something. "The car, the visits… you've been so kind. You don't have to—"
"Mina," he interrupted, his voice regaining a sliver of its former gentleness. "My… regard for you was never conditional. It isn't now." He offered her a sad, faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "A man can admire a beautiful painting in a museum without needing to own it. He can simply appreciate its existence."
The analogy was elegant, heartbreaking, and it carved a hollow space inside her. She was a painting to him. A thing to be admired from a distance.
"Get some rest," he said softly. His eyes held hers for one last, long moment, filled with a depth of feeling that contradicted his words entirely. He was already in deep, and the confession had changed nothing for him—only added a layer of pain.
Then he removed his hand, and the elevator doors slid shut, swallowing him whole and leaving her alone in the silent hallway.
Mina stood there, trembling, the ghost of his nearness still tingling on her skin. She had done the right thing. The honest thing. So why did it feel like she had just shattered something irreplaceable?
She turned and walked slowly back to Lara's room, her feet heavy. Lara took one look at her pale, stricken face and knew.
"You told him," she stated, her voice flat.
Mina simply nodded, collapsing into the chair by the bed, all the strength gone from her limbs.
"Good," Lara said, a note of finality in her voice. "It's for the best, Mina. This… fantasy… it's not our world. Tunde is. Tunde is real. Tunde is safe."
Safe. The word echoed in the emptiness Adams had left behind. Tunde was safe. Predictable. Kind.
But as Mina replayed the look in Adams's eyes—the hurt, the respect, the unwavering admiration—a terrifying thought took root.
She had just chosen the safe, familiar shore over the thrilling, terrifying, and utterly captivating depths of the ocean. And a part of her, a part she barely recognized, was already grieving for the waves.