The first time Damilola saw her properly, his body reacted before his mind could catch up.
His chest tightened.
His breath stalled.
And for a brief, humiliating second, the carefully controlled world he had built for himself cracked right down the middle.
He stood just outside the café, phone pressed to his ear, nodding absent-mindedly as Tobi talked on and on about a business idea that involved too much risk and not enough planning. The soft glow of streetlights bathed the walkway in warm gold, Abuja traffic humming in the distance like background noise meant to be ignored.
Then he looked up.
She was crossing the open space between shops, walking slowly, almost cautiously—like someone who wasn't sure whether to keep going or turn back. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail, exposing her neck the same way it used to when she was tired. She wore a simple blouse and fitted trousers, nothing flashy, but she carried herself with that quiet confidence that had always drawn his attention.
Amara Okoye.
His fingers tightened around the phone.
For a heartbeat, he wondered if exhaustion had finally pushed him into hallucinations. He hadn't slept well in days. Maybe his mind was playing cruel tricks on him, dragging ghosts into the present just to see if he would break.
But then she looked up.
Their eyes met.
And the world shifted.
"Dammy? Guy, you dey hear me?" Tobi's voice echoed faintly from the phone.
Damilola didn't respond.
Two years collapsed into a single, suspended moment.
Amara stopped walking. Not abruptly—just enough to show that she, too, was struggling to understand what she was seeing. Her eyes widened slightly, then softened, recognition settling in like a quiet truth she could no longer deny.
There was no dramatic rush toward each other. No tears. No anger. Just two people standing still in the middle of a city that didn't care about unfinished stories.
"Hi," Amara said.
Her voice was softer than he remembered.
It still hit him like a punch to the chest.
Damilola swallowed hard and lowered his phone slowly, ending the call without a word. Silence rushed in, thick and heavy, pressing down on everything he hadn't said in two years.
"Amara," he replied.
Just her name.
He didn't trust himself with anything more.
She shifted her weight slightly, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. Up close, he could see the changes. She looked older—not in a bad way, but in the way life aged you when it taught hard lessons. There was a calmness to her now, mixed with something fragile beneath the surface.
"You're… here," she said unnecessarily.
"So are you."
A faint, nervous smile tugged at her lips before fading. "I didn't expect to run into you like this."
"I don't make a habit of planning collisions with my past."
The words came out sharper than he intended.
She flinched—but only slightly.
"I deserve that," she said quietly.
That surprised him.
They stood there awkwardly, people passing around them, laughter and conversation floating through the air like background noise. Anyone watching would think they were just acquaintances catching up. No one could see the history pressing in from all sides.
"You look well," Amara said after a moment.
Damilola almost laughed. Almost.
"Well was such a small word for everything he had fought to become.
"So do you," he replied, keeping his tone neutral.
She nodded, eyes dropping briefly to the ground before lifting again. "I moved back recently. For work."
"I figured," he said. "Abuja has a way of pulling people back."
"Even the ones who leave badly?" she asked softly.
That one landed.
He met her gaze again. "Especially those."
Another silence settled between them, heavier this time. It carried unanswered questions, late-night arguments, promises whispered in the dark and broken in the daylight.
"I didn't know you were here," Amara said quickly, as if she needed to say it out loud. "If I had—"
"What?" Damilola interrupted, not unkindly. "You would've warned me?"
"No," she admitted. "I would've… prepared myself."
"For what?" he asked. "Seeing me alive?"
Her breath hitched. "For facing what I left unfinished."
That honesty caught him off guard.
Damilola looked away, jaw tightening as memories surged uninvited. Her leaving. The unanswered calls. The nights he sat staring at his phone, waiting for an explanation that never came.
"You disappeared," he said quietly. "You didn't just leave, Amara. You vanished."
"I know," she whispered. "And I hate myself for how I did it."
He studied her face again. This wasn't the woman who had walked away without looking back. This was someone who had replayed that decision too many times, wondering if there had been another way.
"I was drowning," she continued, voice trembling slightly. "Everything felt like too much. Expectations. Fear. Loving you and being afraid I'd ruin us anyway. Leaving felt like the only way I could survive."
"And what about me?" he asked, finally letting the question out. "Was I just… acceptable loss?"
Her eyes filled—not with tears, but with something close.
"No," she said firmly. "You were the hardest part of leaving."
That didn't fix anything.
But it mattered.
Damilola exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay grounded. Forgiveness wasn't something he could hand out just because the truth sounded sincere.
"I'm not asking for anything," Amara said, as if reading his thoughts. "Not forgiveness. Not a second chance. I just… I didn't want the first words between us to be silence."
He looked at her then—really looked. The woman he had loved. The woman who had broken his heart. The woman standing in front of him now, braver than she used to be, but still vulnerable in the same places.
"Silence avoided," he said.
She smiled faintly. "You always did hide behind dry humor."
"That version of me retired," he replied.
Her smile softened. "Did he?"
Their eyes locked again, something fragile and dangerous stretching between them. A reminder of how easy it once was. How natural it still felt to stand this close.
A breeze swept through the walkway, cooling the air, pulling them back into the present.
"My bus is coming," Amara said quietly, glancing toward the road.
"Right."
Neither of them moved.
"I'm glad you're okay," she added.
He nodded once. "Take care of yourself."
She hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, then thought better of it. Turning away, she walked toward the bus stop, her steps steady, controlled.
Damilola watched her go.
He didn't follow.
He didn't call her back.
But when she disappeared into the crowd, something inside him loosened—and something else began to ache.
The past had finally spoken.
And it had a lot more to say.