TUESDAY
AKANNI POV
The house felt unusually quiet when I got back that night.
I had just returned from Bukky's place—nothing dramatic, just one of those evenings where time slipped away unnoticed. Laughter, dinner, a movie we barely paid attention to. Normal. Comfortable.
As I dropped my car keys on the console and loosened my collar, an unpleasant odor hit me.
I paused.
That was strange.
Mira had said she would be away until Tuesday. And it was Tuesday—already late into the night. I walked toward the kitchen, curiosity pulling me faster than my tired legs wanted to move.
Neatly packed containers sat on the counter. Covered. Labelled. Warm enough to suggest they had been there long. How come I did not notice this.
I frowned slightly.
Mira never did not tell me she prepared anything. If she cooked, she cooked properly. Still, something about it unsettled me—not because of the food, but because I hadn't known she was back.
I was just reaching for one of the containers when I heard the door behind me close softly.
I turned.
Mira stood there.
She looked tired—heels off, handbag slung over one shoulder, blazer folded over her arm. Her face carried the quiet exhaustion of someone who had spent days fixing problems that weren't entirely hers.
"You're back," I said.
"Yes," she replied simply. "Just returned."
There was a brief silence.
"I thought you said Tuesday," I added.
"It's still Tuesday," she said, checking her wristwatch. "Barely."
I nodded. "I… didn't not see this. Did you perhaps made this?"
"I packed it since Thursday," she said. "I assumed you'd be home."
That assumption landed heavier than she probably intended.
"I wasn't," I replied honestly. "I went over to Bukky's."
Her eyes flickered—not jealousy, not anger, just something quieter. Disappointment,
maybe. Or realization.
"I figured, I initially waited to prepare some of the meals, so you can use it to cover, till I returns, at least. And I waited till the next" she said calmly. "You've been spending more time there lately."
I leaned against the counter. "Mira—"
"I'm not complaining," she cut in gently. "I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't be alone here."
That did something to me.
"Mira, you don't have to—"
"I know," she interrupted again, firmer this time. "I know I don't have to. I wanted to."
I exhaled slowly. "You said you were leaving Thursday. You shouldn't have stayed back because of me."
She gave a small, tired smile. "I didn't stay back because of you. I stayed back because I thought… maybe I shouldn't leave you entirely alone."
That was when I understood.
Not love.
Not jealousy.
But attachment.
Something had shifted since I told her about Bukky. And I hadn't noticed soon enough.
"Mira," I said carefully, "you know you're family to me. Like a sister."
"I know," she replied quickly. Too quickly. "I've always known."
"But—"
"But things have changed," she finished for me.
Silence stretched between us again.
"I wasn't like this before," she said quietly. "Not during your previous relationships. I don't know why this one feels… different. I don't know why it seems to hurt"
I straightened. "I never asked you to put your life on hold for me."
"I didn't say you did," she replied, her voice firm now. "But you can't deny you've changed too."
I met her gaze. "Yes. I have. Because I'm moving forward."
Her lips pressed together.
"I didn't pretend to be your fiancée just for show, Akanni," she said. "I did it to help you. To protect your image. Nothing more."
"And I appreciate that," I replied immediately. "And I've always treated you with respect. Like family. That hasn't changed. Once Bukky agree to marry me, I will come clean with my Family"
"Sure. But your attention has," she said.
That was the disagreement—not loud, not dramatic, but sharp enough to leave a mark.
"I'm allowed to have a life, Mira," I said calmly. "Just like you are."
She looked away.
"I know," she said after a moment. "And that's why I'm leaving tomorrow."
I frowned. "Leaving! Why?"
"Properly," she clarified. "I'll still help when needed, but not like this. Not living here, not cooking late meals you may not even eat."
I opened my mouth to argue—then stopped.
She was right.
"That's fair," I said quietly.
She nodded. "The food you wasted is Seven fifty Thousand. You should make the
payment to my Opay"
She picked up her bag and headed toward her room.
"Mira," I called.
She paused. "Price too low?" she asked sarcastically
"Take care of yourself," I said.
She looked back at me, her expression softening just a little. "You too, Akanni."
Her door closed moments later.
I stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the neatly packed and wasted meals.
For the first time, it hit me—not guilt, not regret—but responsibility.
Change doesn't announce itself.
It just shows up one Tuesday night… already cooked, already waiting.
The rest of the week passed more quietly than I expected.
Work filled my mornings and afternoons—meetings, recordings, deadlines stacking neatly on each other—but my evenings slowed down in a way they hadn't before. Mira kept to herself after that Tuesday night. There were no long conversations, no shared dinners, no casual check-ins in the hallway.
She was respectful. Distant, but respectful.
By Thursday morning, I noticed some of her things were already gone. The guest room looked less lived-in, stripped down to its bare essentials. When I asked her about it over breakfast, she simply nodded.
"I'll be moving out fully today," she said. "I've arranged everything."
I paused. "Mira… about the other night—"
She looked up, calm. "You don't need to explain."
"I still want to apologize," I insisted. "If I made you feel sidelined or taken for granted."
She studied me for a moment, then sighed softly. "You didn't do anything wrong, Akanni. I just stayed longer than I should have."
"That doesn't mean I shouldn't have been more mindful," I replied.
A faint smile crossed her face. "You've always been mindful. That's the problem."
"I am staying at one of the villa. At least, you got that" she said
"sure" I said.
Before she left that evening, I helped her load her boxes into the car. Nothing dramatic. No tears. Just quiet acceptance.
"You deserve happiness," she said before getting into the driver's seat. "And Bukky seems like someone who will give you that."
"I hope so," I replied honestly.
"Take care of her," she added. "And take care of yourself."
"I will."
As her car disappeared down the street, I realized something important: chapters don't always end loudly. Some simply close when it's time.