Angela was good.
Like really good.
Woke up early. Did her devotion. Posted #JesusGirl selfies. Focused on lectures. Even started journaling again.
No boys. No tears. No Peter.
She smiled in fellowship, took sermon notes, said "God bless you, brother…" like she wasn't still haunted by the memory of his breath on her collarbone.
She was in healing mode.
Until healing walked into church… with someone else.
---
Her name was Sonia.
New to campus. Bright eyes. Long lashes. Body curved like trouble dressed in Ankara.
And Peter?
Laughing. Talking. Standing beside her after service.
Too close. Too comfortable.
Angela blinked.
"Who's she?" Tamara whispered beside her, already sensing thunder.
Angela replied calmly. "No idea."
But her heart was screaming.
---
It got worse.
Two days later, Sonia posted on her story:
📸 A blurry video of Peter tying her scarf after midweek prayers.
"Brothers like this >>>>"
🙏❤️🔥
Angela saw it at midnight.
She threw her phone on the mattress. Stared at her ceiling.
She'd chosen peace. Chosen God. Walked away from heat.
So why did it feel like she was now the one who got burned?
---
By Friday, Angela had fully entered petty mode.
She wore that black dress. Tfhe fitted one with the gold zip. She let herG braids fall long. Red lip gloss. Anklet.
Nothing too carnal even though it wasn't her usuals.
But very intentional.
And when she passed by Peter in front of the library?
She smiled at him.
Then smiled longer at the guy standing beside him.
"Hi Samuel," she said, voice sweet enough to make Peter blink.
"How's your week?"
Samuel grinned. "Much better now."
Angela laughed softly and walked away, hips just a little more expressive than usual.
Peter stared.
Frowned.
And that was all she needed.
---
Later that night, her phone buzzed.
Peter:
"You're glowing lately. Like, differently."
Angela stared at the message.
Smirked.
Angela:
"God is good. And healing looks good on me."
Peter:
"Looks like Samuel noticed."
Angela:
"Oh? Are you watching me now?"
Peter:
"Maybe I never stopped."
Angela's heart raced.
Angela:
"Then maybe you should stop pretending Sonia's your peace."
No reply.
She dropped the phone.
Let the silence sting.
---
That night, Angela didn't cry.
She didn't text.
She just whispered, into the air:
"God… please… don't let me become what You saved me from."
But deep down?
The war was already underway.
Because Peter wasn't done.
And neither was she.