Ivy
Before I ever saw Frank, I knew his voice. Not his real voice, not yet but his voice in text. The way he typed. The way he punctuated his sentences. The way he responded to questions in the whatsapp group.
It was the Harmattan semester, dry and dusty, and I was in my second year of Pharmacy at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. The group was meant for academic discussions past questions, lecture notes, complaints about difficult lecturers. But sometimes, in the evenings, the conversations would drift. Someone would post a meme. Someone would ask an inappropriate question. And then Frank would respond.
His display name was simply ''Frank_lin'' and his profile picture was a blurry image of a bookshelf. But the way he wrote was measured, thoughtful, never in a hurry and it made me curious. When someone attacked him for an opinion, he didn't fight back. He simply said, "I understand your perspective," and moved on. I found myself scrolling up just to read his messages again.
After three weeks of lurking, I did something bold. I sent him a direct message.
"Hi Frank. I'm Ivy. I've noticed your contributions in the group and I just wanted to say I appreciate how you communicate. It's rare. Hope that doesn't sound strange."
I stared at the message for five minutes before pressing send. Then I threw my phone on my bed and paced my room like a mad woman.
He replied within the hour.
"Ivy. Thank you. That's kind of you. Are you also in Nsukka?"
And just like that, the door opened.
We talked for hours that first night. About everything. About nothing. He told me he was a graduate of Psychology from the same university now working and living in the same city. He told me he stayed because the town had a way of holding people, the dusty roads and the quiet evenings and the distant lights of the campus.
I told him I was a Pharmacy student, struggling with Pharmaceutical Chemistry, living in a hostel that flooded when it rained. I told him I had a small fridge where I kept my drugs—not illegal ones, I laughed—just my insulin. Type 1 diabetes, I explained. Since I was twelve.
His response came quickly: "That must take a lot of strength. Managing that and Pharmacy. I admire you, Ivy."
No pity. No awkwardness. Just admiration.
For two weeks, we talked every night. He would send good morning messages with Bible verses. I would send pictures of the sunset from my hostel balcony. We learned the rhythms of each other's days—when he took lunch, when I had practicals, when we both lay awake at night unable to sleep.
Then he asked: "Can I see you?"
My heart stopped. Then raced. Then stopped again.
"Where?" I asked.
"The library. Wednesday. 4pm. We can pretend to study."
I laughed out loud in my empty room.
The day came. I spent an hour getting ready, which was ridiculous because I was going to a library. I wore a simple yellow dress—my mother always said yellow brought out the caramel in my skin. I am five foot seven, and slim,maybe from the farm work I did as a child, with a figure that fills a dress nicely. Not petite, not really. Just me. My hair was pulled back in a puff. I checked myself in the mirror a hundred times.
When I walked into the library, I saw him immediately.
He was sitting at a table near the window, a book open in front of him that he wasn't reading. He was tall. So tall. Later he would tell me he is six foot four, but in that moment he just seemed like a tower of a man. Dark complexion, the kind they call "chocolate" in romance novels, but richer, deeper. His skin was the color of good earth after rain. He had broad shoulders and long legs folded under the small library table, looking slightly ridiculous, slightly endearing.
When he saw me, he stood up.
And then he smiled.
It was the smile I had imagined from his texts—warm, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world just for me.
"Ivy," he said. Not a question. A statement. A recognition.
"Frank," I said back. And it felt like coming home.
Frank
When Ivy walked into that library, I forgot every sentence I had rehearsed.
I had planned to be cool, collected. I am a graduate of Psychology from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka. I understand human behavior. I understand eye contact and body language and the science of attraction.
But then she appeared in the doorway, backlit by the Harmattan sun, and all my theories dissolved.
She was beautiful in a way that made me angry, angry that I hadn't met her sooner, angry that I had wasted weeks on text when I could have been looking at her. Caramel skin, smooth and warm like palm oil. Five foot seven and with the kind of figure that makes a simple yellow dress look like fashion. Her eyes were bright, curious, scanning the room until they landed on me.
And when they did, she smiled.
I stood up so fast I almost knocked over the table. At six foot four, with my very dark complexion, I must have looked like a giant rising. But she didn't seem intimidated. She seemed... pleased.
We sat down across from each other like two people pretending to be strangers. The library was quiet except for the ceiling fans and the distant sound of students shuffling. We didn't study. We talked in whispers, leaning close, our elbows almost touching on the wooden table.
She told me about growing up in Enugu, about her mother who sells fabric in the market, about her younger brother who wants to be a pilot. She told me about her diabetes with such matter-of-factness, as if it were just another detail, like her height or her eye color. I watched the way her hands moved when she talked, the way she bit her lip when thinking.
I told her about my parents in Owerri, about my four sisters who spoil me rotten, about why I stayed in Nsukka after graduation—the town grows on you, I said, like moss on old walls.
"Why Psychology?" she asked.
"Because I want to understand people," I said. "Why Pharmacy?"
"Because I want to help them," I said. "And because my mother said I should have a backup plan in case my writing doesn't work out."
"You write?"
"I try." She looked down, suddenly shy. "Stories. Poems. Nothing serious."
But the way she said it told me it was serious. Very serious.
We talked until the librarian glared at us. We talked outside, walking slowly through the campus, past the golden statue of the lion, past the faculty of Arts, past students who glanced at us and smiled knowingly. We talked until the sun began to set, painting Nsukka in shades of orange and purple.
At her hostel gate, we stopped.
"I had a nice time," she said.
"I had a nice time too," I said. Then, because I am a psychologist and I understand human behavior, I added: "Can I see you again?"
She looked up at me—way up—and smiled that smile again.
"Yes, Frank. You can see me again."
I walked back to my apartment with a grin so wide my face hurt. That night, I didn't sleep. I just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment. The way she laughed. The way her eyes crinkled. The way she said my name.
And I thought: This one. This one is different