Morning arrived with the kind of light that exposes everything you tried to hide at night.
My phone lay beside me — face down, like it was ashamed of what happened too.
I woke up with a headache that wasn't just from the drink. My heart felt heavier than my body.
The memory of last night played back in flashes — Chioma's disappointed messages, my voice shaking through the texts, the truth I could never take back.
I dragged myself out of bed, eyes swollen, throat dry.
The mirror caught me off guard.
"Who are you?" I whispered.
The girl staring back looked lost — eyeliner smudged, hair in chaos, wearing a T-shirt that still smelled like tears and cheap gin.
I washed my face slowly, trying to scrub off regret, but guilt doesn't rinse away that easily.
It lingers — behind your eyes, under your skin, between your ribs.
I picked up my phone again.
Chioma's last message still unread.
For a second, I typed "I'm sorry", but erased it.
What's the point of saying sorry when you can't even forgive yourself?
I opened Instagram, watched people laugh on their stories, smile at cameras, move like life didn't hurt.
I envied them.
Then, as if my heart wanted to play a cruel game, Nathan's picture appeared — his smile, bright and soft, the kind that always made my world feel safe.
I stared too long.
The thought came: What if he finds out?
The panic hit. My chest tightened.
I turned off my phone.
No, I can't. I won't think about it.
I'll just… act normal. Pretend nothing happened.
I'll smile. Post. Reply. Laugh. Be "fine."
That's what I told myself — over and over again — until it almost sounded true.
Later that day, Chioma called.
I hesitated before answering.
"Elen, how are you feeling now?" her voice was soft, but heavy.
"I'm okay," I lied, forcing a chuckle. "I just needed to cry it out last night. I'm better now."
She sighed. "I know you, Elena. You're not better. You're just avoiding it again."
"I'm fine, Chioma," I said, a little too quickly.
"Fine doesn't sound like that."
"Can we not talk about it? Please?"
Silence. Then she said quietly, "Alright. But I hope pretending helps you sleep at night."
After the call, I sat for a while staring at nothing.
Maybe pretending was the only way to survive right now.
If I faced everything, I might break.
So I went through the motions — ate breakfast I couldn't taste, cleaned a room that still felt messy no matter how much I arranged it.
Then I picked up my journal and wrote:
I'll be okay. I'll make peace with what I did.
Even if I don't deserve it.
I tried to convince myself that moving on meant forgetting,
but forgetting doesn't erase consequences — it only delays them.
That evening, I met Chioma briefly at school. She watched me like she was studying a wound.
"You've not said a word all day," she said.
"I just have a lot on my mind," I murmured.
"You mean guilt?" she asked softly.
I froze. My eyes met hers, but I didn't reply.
She exhaled, shook her head, and hugged me. "Just… don't let silence eat you alive."
Her words echoed long after she left.
That night, I lay on my bed again — lights off, silence thick.
My heart whispered things I didn't want to hear.
You betrayed him.
You failed yourself.
You can pretend all you want, but the truth knows your name.
I turned on my side, clutching my pillow, whispering to the dark,
"I just didn't want him to see me as weak."
But maybe weakness was pretending not to care.
Maybe strength was facing the pain —
and I wasn't ready for that yet.
So I closed my eyes, swallowed the ache,
and decided to keep living like it never happened.
Even though it did.