The city never slept, but somehow, neither did I.
Rain tapped softly against my apartment window, a quiet rhythm that matched the chaos in my chest. Lagos at night was alive—streetlights shimmering on wet asphalt, horns blaring in a distant traffic jam, and the faint scent of roasted corn drifting from the corner stand below. Yet here I was, perched on the edge of my sofa with my laptop open, staring at a blinking cursor and a story I couldn't quite tell.
I didn't need this city to remind me how small I sometimes felt. Work, friends, family—everyone expected me to have it all figured out. But tonight, that weight pressed heavier than usual.
My phone buzzed. I resisted at first, thinking it was another group chat notification or some trivial text. Then I saw his name. Ademola.
"Hey, you still awake?"
I swallowed hard. One simple message, and my heart skipped. It wasn't just any text—it was his text. The one I'd been hoping for all week.
"Yes. Can't sleep," I replied, my fingers trembling just enough to make me pause before hitting send.
The reply came almost instantly.
"Same. Want to talk?"
A laugh escaped me—soft, nervous, maybe even a little foolish. Talk. That word carried a weight neither of us had admitted. We'd met at a friend's gallery opening a month ago. He had this smile that made strangers feel like friends and a voice that lingered in my thoughts long after the night ended. And somehow, against my better judgment, I'd let him in.
Now, here we were, texting at midnight, each word a bridge over a distance we hadn't yet named.
I grabbed my coat. "I'll come by," I typed, before I could second-guess myself.
The streets were slick and glimmering under the rain, neon signs reflecting like a thousand tiny promises in every puddle. I kept my umbrella tilted to shield my face, not because I minded the rain, but because my heart was racing too fast for me to think about anything else.
When I arrived, he was waiting outside the little café we had agreed upon—yes, the café, a cliché, but somehow perfect. His eyes met mine immediately, that familiar warmth, that sense of rightness.
"Can't sleep either?" I asked, smiling despite myself.
He chuckled. "Seems like we're both victims of insomnia."
We walked inside, letting the soft hum of jazz and the smell of coffee wrap around us. The conversation started awkwardly—small talk, polite laughs—but slowly, like the tide creeping in, it began to feel natural. Honest.
And for the first time in weeks, I felt the edges of my world soften.
I didn't know what tomorrow held, but right now, in this rain-slicked city, with him across from me and the smell of coffee in the air, I felt like maybe, just maybe, whispers of tomorrow were already speaking to me.