Comfort changes people faster than hunger ever does.
By the time Chinedu noticed, Amaka had stopped asking permission for anything that belonged to him. She did not ask to use his card. She did not ask to invite people over. She did not ask how his day went before unloading hers.
It was assumed.
She woke later now. Took longer to dress. Left the room like it would wait for her.
He adjusted his schedule around hers without discussion. If she needed a ride, he made time. If she needed silence, he disappeared into work. If she needed money, it moved.
The gratitude phase had passed.
Entitlement had arrived quietly.
One morning, she complained about the generator fuel being low.
"You should buy some later," she said, brushing her hair.
He nodded.
Later never came fast enough.
By afternoon, she was irritated.
"You said you'd handle it."
"I will."
"When?"
He stood up and went out immediately.
That was when he understood the shift.
His response time had become her measure of care.
On campus, her confidence grew sharper. She spoke louder in class. Interrupted more. Smiled wider at people who watched.
She no longer sat beside him every lecture.
Sometimes she waved from across the room. Sometimes she did not.
He noticed who she sat near instead. Men who spoke boldly. Men who carried themselves with noise.
Men who did not ask her questions.
One afternoon, after class, he asked gently, "Is something wrong?"
She sighed like she was tired of explaining. "Nothing is wrong. Why do you always assume something is wrong?"
He apologized.
Later that week, she came home late again.
No explanation. No message.
When he asked, she said, "You don't own me."
He nodded.
Ownership was not what he wanted.
He wanted acknowledgment.
Her friends intensified the pressure.
They compared lifestyles openly now. Phones. Outings. Men.
Amaka listened. Measured. Adjusted.
"What would you do if I wasn't here?" she asked one night, casually.
He looked at her. "Why?"
"I'm just thinking."
She always was.
His work sessions grew darker. Less frequent. More dangerous.
He hated it.
He told himself it was temporary.
One evening, she mentioned a guy from her department.
"Kunle is funny," she said. "He talks too much."
Chinedu listened.
She mentioned him again two days later.
He said nothing.
The third time, he asked, "Why do you keep bringing him up?"
She laughed. "You're jealous."
He did not answer.
She smiled like she had proven something.
That night, she slept facing away from him.
Her phone buzzed. She smiled at the screen.
He saw it.
Said nothing.
The first betrayal did not arrive suddenly.
It assembled itself piece by piece.
And Chinedu, aware of every piece, chose stillness over truth.
Because leaving would mean admitting that everything he had given was not love.
Just leverage.
And leverage only works when you're willing to pull it.
He wasn't.
The distance grew legs.
She stopped coming home some nights. Returned early morning. Said nothing. Acted normal.
Chinedu tracked patterns without confronting them. Tuesday nights. Friday afternoons. Always after group meetings or "hangouts."
He learned her excuses before she said them.
Project work. Friend drama. Family calls.
He accepted all.
One evening, her phone rang while she was in the shower. The screen lit up on the table.
Kunle.
He did not touch it.
The ringing stopped. A message followed. He looked away.
When she came out, towel wrapped tight, she checked her phone and smiled.
"Who was that?" he asked, neutral.
She shrugged. "Class stuff."
He nodded.
That night, he paid for her transport to an event he was not invited to.
She dressed carefully. Took pictures. Left without looking back.
Alone, he opened his laptop and stared at the screen. His hands hovered. He closed it.
He could not afford mistakes tonight.
The next day, a friend pulled him aside.
"Guy, no vex," the friend said. "People dey talk."
"About what?"
"About her."
Chinedu waited.
"They say she dey see somebody else."
He thanked the friend and walked away.
At home, she laughed at something on her phone.
He watched her and felt something break cleanly. No drama. No shock.
Clarity.
He did not confront her.
Instead, he became better. Kinder. More available.
He increased spending. Fixed things before they broke. Covered problems before they formed.
He tried to outpace the lie.
She noticed the change.
"You've been nice lately," she said.
He smiled. "I've always been nice."
She kissed him briefly. Left again.
The first proof arrived quietly.
A receipt. A location tag. A photo sent by mistake, then deleted too late.
He saw it.
Did not react.
That night, she slept beside him. Peaceful.
He stared at the ceiling and counted breaths.
In the morning, he asked one question.
"Were you at the movies last night?"
She answered too fast. "Yes. With Deborah."
He nodded.
The lie settled between them like furniture.
He carried the confirmation quietly.
Like a fragile object. Like something that would shatter if handled in public.
For days, he said nothing. Acted normal. Paid attention to details he had ignored before. Times. Routes. Tone shifts. The order in which her lies arrived.
They became predictable.
She said "movies" again the next week. Same friend. Same casual delivery.
He nodded. Handed her transport money. Watched her dress with care that no movie required.
When she left, he sat alone and waited.
Not for her.
For himself.
He checked nothing. Followed no one. He already knew.
That was the worst part.
Knowledge without denial.
When she returned late, she smelled unfamiliar. Not perfume. Not sweat. Something else. Another space.
She climbed into bed and turned her back to him.
He did not touch her.
The next morning, she complained.
"You're distant."
He looked at her. "Am I?"
"You don't hold me anymore."
He nodded. "I've been tired."
She accepted that answer easily.
She always accepted the answers that protected her.
Campus life continued like nothing was wrong.
She laughed louder. Dressed sharper. Took more pictures. Accepted attention openly.
Her friends fed it.
"You're glowing."
"You've upgraded."
"You deserve more."
Chinedu heard those words secondhand. Each one landed.
One afternoon, he helped her submit another project. Saved another grade.
She hugged him and said, "I don't know how I'd survive without you."
He almost laughed.
That night, he opened his laptop and stared at his work.
For the first time, disgust rose before fear.
He closed it.
Money still came in from old pipelines. Residuals. Delays.
He decided not to replace them.
The lie in his life had already taken shape. He did not need two.
Her family pressure intensified.
Phone calls ended with sighs. Messages with irritation.
"My mum thinks I'm stuck," she said one evening.
"Stuck where?"
She waved around the room. "Here. This life."
He nodded slowly. "Then go."
She stared at him. "You don't mean that."
He did not answer.
That silence unsettled her.
She tested him.
Came home later. Asked for money casually. Spoke sharply.
He still provided.
Her respect did not return.
The first real proof came from someone she did not expect.
A girl from her circle. Not a friend. A rival.
She sent him a message without greeting.
"She's not serious with you."
Attached was a photo. Dark. Cropped. Clear enough.
Amaka's hair. A man's hand.
Chinedu closed the message and deleted it.
Not because he doubted it.
Because he did not want evidence to change what he already knew.
That night, she said she was tired and went to sleep early.
He stayed awake.
For the first time since arriving at Obafemi State University, he imagined life without her.
The room felt quieter. Lighter.
The fear he expected did not come.
Only sadness.
He stayed because leaving felt louder than staying.
Silence was easier.
Amaka noticed the change but misread it. She thought he had accepted his place. She relaxed into it. Comfort grew sharper.
She began borrowing without asking. Shoes. Shirts. Cash from his drawer.
When he mentioned it once, lightly, she frowned. "You act like everything is a transaction."
He nodded. "Everything is."
She laughed. Did not hear the warning.
At school, Kunle's name appeared more often. Not directly. Side comments. Jokes. Stories that placed him nearby.
"Kunle argued with the lecturer today," she said.
"Kunle got an A on his paper."
"Kunle is annoying."
Names repeated become familiar. Familiar becomes permission.
Chinedu watched the pattern lock.
One afternoon, rain flooded the road. She called him.
"Can you pick me up?"
"Where are you?"
"Faculty building."
He arrived. Waited. She came out with Kunle.
Introductions happened. Polite. Short.
Kunle smiled too easily.
As they drove, Amaka talked too much. Filled space. Avoided eye contact.
Chinedu said nothing.
That night, she asked for money again. He sent it. Smaller amount this time.
She noticed.
"That's not enough," she said.
"It's what I have."
She looked at him longer. Calculated. Then nodded. "Okay."
Her tone changed after that.
Less warmth. More edge.
She stayed out more. Came home later. Stopped pretending.
He stopped pretending too.
He no longer asked where she went. No longer waited up. No longer filled gaps with care.
He focused on class. On reading. On sleep.
The guilt from his work returned stronger. He saw it clearly now. He had used lies to fund lies. None of it held.
One evening, she returned angry.
"You don't treat me the same anymore," she said.
He answered calmly. "You don't live the same anymore."
She scoffed. "So now you're blaming me?"
"I'm noticing."
That word set her off.
She accused him of control. Of monitoring. Of insecurity.
He did not defend himself.
That scared her.
The first time she admitted something by accident came two days later.
"I was with friends," she said. Then corrected. "Friend."
He looked at her.
She waved it away. "You're reading meaning."
He nodded. "I am."
She went quiet.
The night after, she did not come home.
He did not call.
In the morning, she returned and acted normal. Made tea. Changed clothes.
He watched her like a stranger.
Later that day, he received another message. Different number.
"Ask her about the movies."
No photo this time. No proof. Just a line.
He deleted it.
That evening, he asked.
"Did you go to the movies with Deborah last week?"
She did not answer immediately.
Then, "Why?"
"Just asking."
She sighed. "Yes."
Her eyes did not meet his.
That was enough.
The routine settled.
No questions. No explanations.
They lived like roommates with history. Shared space. Separate truths.
Amaka stopped pretending to be careful. She answered calls in his presence. Lowered her voice without leaving the room. Smiled at her phone without hiding it.
Chinedu stopped reacting.
That unsettled her more than anger would have.
One afternoon, she confronted him.
"You don't fight for me anymore."
He looked up from his book. "I'm not in a competition."
She laughed sharply. "So you don't care?"
"I care enough not to beg."
That sentence stayed in the room.
She left angry. Came back late.
The next day, her attitude shifted again. Softer. Calculated.
She cooked. Sat close. Touched his arm.
He let it happen.
Not from hope.
From curiosity.
He wanted to see how long the performance would last.
Two days.
On the third day, she asked for money again. Bigger amount.
"I need it urgently."
"For what?"
She paused. "Personal."
He sent half.
She stared at her phone. "Why half?"
"That's what I have."
She looked at him with something close to disgust. "You've changed."
He nodded. "People do."
That night, she slept facing away from him again.
The following week, Kunle appeared openly. Walked her to the gate. Sat with her during breaks. Laughed loud.
People noticed.
Someone joked, "So you don upgrade again?"
She smiled. Did not correct them.
Chinedu heard the joke later.
He did not respond.
Inside, something loosened.
The need to prove.
The need to compete.
He began preparing his exit quietly.
Sorted finances. Reduced exposure. Closed accounts.
He thought about NYSC applications. Post graduation. Distance.
One evening, she mentioned NYSC first.
"What if we're posted to different states?" she asked.
He answered calmly. "Then we'll be in different states."
She studied him. "You're too calm."
"I've practiced."
She laughed. "You're funny."
He did not smile.
That night, she told him she was going to the movies again.
Same words. Same tone.
He nodded.
She waited. "You're not asking with who?"
He shook his head. "Enjoy yourself."
That confused her.
She left slower than usual.
Alone, he sat on the bed and felt the final thread snap.
Not anger.
Relief.
He understood then.
Love had ended long ago.
What remained was habit, comfort, and fear of starting again.
He was done with all three.