The phone nearly slipped from my hand.
> Please come quickly. It's Amara.
For a heartbeat, I couldn't move. The noise of the crowd faded — the cheers, the music, the flashing lights — all turned into a low, distant hum. My chest tightened as I read the message again, this time out loud, like maybe I'd gotten it wrong.
No. I hadn't.
"Make I hear," Chinonso said, noticing the change in my face. "What happened?"
I showed him the screen, my voice barely steady. "It's Amara. The nurse said I should come—"
"Ogini kwa?" His eyes widened. "Let's go, now!"
We ran out of the hall, ignoring the people calling after us. My heart pounded so hard it drowned out everything else. Each step down that long corridor felt heavier, the distance between us stretching and bending like time itself wanted to keep me away from her.
By the time we reached the infirmary, my breath was gone. The nurse met us at the door, her expression grim.
"She woke up after you left," she said quietly. "But her pulse dropped again. We're monitoring her now."
"Can I see her?" I asked, almost pleading.
She hesitated. "Just for a moment."
I pushed the door open gently.
The room was dim, lit only by a flickering bulb near the window. Amara lay on the bed, paler than before, an IV line snaking from her wrist. The steady beep of the monitor was the only sound.
I moved closer, each step slow, careful — like the air itself might shatter around her.
"Amara…"
Her eyelids fluttered. A faint smile curved her lips. "You came."
"Of course I came." I tried to smile back, but it trembled. "You scared me again."
Her eyes softened. "You always worry too much."
"And you never worry enough," I shot back gently. "What happened? You were fine earlier—"
"I think I pushed too hard," she whispered, eyes drifting to the window. "My body… it's been giving me signs, but I kept ignoring them."
"Signs?" My throat tightened. "What signs?"
She didn't answer at first. Instead, she reached for my hand. Her skin was cool — too cool.
"Onyedika," she said slowly, her voice breaking. "If I can't stand tomorrow… finish the poem for me, okay?"
I swallowed hard. "Don't say that."
"Promise me."
Her gaze locked onto mine — steady, searching, and full of something that terrified me more than the silence.
I nodded. "I promise."
For a moment, the room fell quiet again. Her breathing steadied, and I thought maybe — just maybe — the worst had passed. Then the wind outside rose, brushing against the window with a whispering sigh.
She closed her eyes and murmured, almost to herself, "Do you know why I love the sea?"
I shook my head. "Tell me."
"It listens," she said softly. "Even when you say nothing."
That smile lingered on her lips, faint and fragile. I brushed a strand of hair from her face and whispered, "Then I'll listen too."
Her eyes opened again, shining with something deep — not just affection, but a quiet knowing. "You already do."
The beep of the monitor slowed for a second — then steadied. I exhaled.
"You should rest," I said gently.
"Stay," she whispered.
I pulled the chair closer and sat beside her, our hands still entwined. The night stretched long and heavy, the silence wrapping around us like a shared secret.
For the first time in a long while, I didn't speak. Neither did she.
We just listened — to the faint hum of the fan, the slow rhythm of her breathing, the far-off echo of the sea outside the window.
Morning came too soon.
The nurse entered quietly, checking the IV. Amara stirred, opening her eyes just as the light touched her face.
"I'm supposed to rest, right?" she teased weakly.
"Supposed to," I said, forcing a smile.
She reached for her notebook, still lying by the table. "Then maybe… I can write instead."
"Later," I said softly. "You need strength first."
She gave a small hum, but her fingers brushed the notebook anyway — like it held something more important than rest itself.
Her eyes drifted shut again, and for a second, I thought she was just sleeping.
But then the monitor beeped — once, sharp — and paused.
My heart stopped with it.
"Amara?" I said, leaning forward.
No answer.
The nurse rushed in. "Move aside!" she shouted, checking her pulse. "She's crashing—"
Chinonso, who had been waiting outside, burst in. "What's happening?"
The room filled with noise — the clatter of equipment, the nurse's frantic voice, the sharp, endless alarm of the monitor.
I stood frozen. The promise echoed in my head — "Finish the poem for me."
"Amara!" I shouted, my voice breaking. "Amara, hapu m aka! Don't do this!"
The nurse pressed down on her chest. "She's not responding!"
The sound of the beeping slowed, then stopped completely.
For a moment, time itself went silent.
Then —
A faint gasp.
Her chest rose again. The monitor flickered back to life.
"Pulse is returning!" the nurse said quickly. "She's stable!"
My knees gave way, relief crashing over me so hard it hurt. Chinonso caught my shoulder, whispering, "Bro, she's fighting. She no go leave you."
But even as I nodded, a quiet dread lingered in my chest — because deep down, I'd seen something in her eyes before they closed again.
Something final.
Hours later, after the nurse insisted I rest, I walked out to the school's back field. The breeze smelled of rain and salt — the faint scent of the sea beyond the fence.
The poem notebook was still in my hand. I flipped to the next page — the one she'd written last.
And there, in her handwriting, were words I hadn't seen before.
> "If the sea calls me home before you do, don't chase the tide.
Listen. You'll hear me there."
The ink had smudged at the corner — like it had been written in tears.
The paper trembled in my hands as I whispered to the wind,
"Amara… don't you dare go where I can't follow."
The wind answered softly — carrying the faintest whisper of her voice.
> "Then listen… and you'll find me."
To be continued…