The weeks that followed were strange. Amara tried to convince herself that everything was normal — that the little distance she felt in Dapo's eyes was just stress, fatigue, or something temporary. Yet, shadows lingered where sunlight once touched their love.
It started with small things. A missed call. A reply that came too late. A smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. She noticed the way he sometimes became quiet, staring at his phone with a faraway look, only to quickly put it down when she appeared.
Amara tried not to let it bother her. She told herself that love was patient, that trust meant believing even when your heart whispered doubts. But deep inside, a quiet anxiety was growing — subtle, but persistent.
One evening, she waited for him outside the library, as they often did. The campus was quiet, students scattered here and there, laughing softly, their voices fading into the night air. When Dapo appeared, he was smiling, holding a bag of pastries — her favorite. The warmth of his gesture was familiar, comforting.
But his eyes… they weren't completely on her.
"Amara," he said, his voice soft, "I—"
"Dapo?" she interrupted gently, sensing something unspoken. "You're distracted."
He paused. For a heartbeat, the smile faltered. Then he shook his head and shrugged. "I'm fine. Really. Don't worry about it."
Amara forced a smile. She wanted to believe him. She always wanted to. But the flicker of unease that ran through her chest wouldn't let go.
They walked together, their fingers brushing occasionally, hearts trying to sync as if nothing had changed. But she could feel it — a subtle tension, like a thread fraying quietly in the middle of their connection.
That night, at his apartment, the unease grew stronger. He laughed at her stories, teased her gently, held her close like nothing was wrong. Yet, she couldn't ignore the way his eyes darted toward his phone every few minutes, how his smiles felt slightly delayed, slightly forced.
Amara rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth she always craved. She wanted the closeness to soothe her, to make her doubt disappear. But the chill in her chest told her that love alone couldn't erase worry.
"I'm scared," she admitted quietly, almost to herself.
Dapo stiffened slightly, then relaxed, holding her tighter. "Don't be," he whispered. "I'm here."
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to trust the sound of his words as much as she had when she first met him. But a tiny part of her — the part that whispered in the middle of the night, the part she tried to ignore — knew that something had begun to shift.
Love could be powerful.
Love could be kind.
But love could also blind you.
And in the quiet of that apartment, as rain tapped softly against the windows, Amara realized that sometimes the first crack in a heart doesn't appear with a shout. It comes quietly. Slowly. Almost invisibly.
And once it appears, nothing is ever the same again.