“I’m just tired,” she’d say.
Or, “It’s nothing.”
But Chike noticed. The way her phone sometimes buzzed and she silenced it too quickly. The way she guarded parts of her past like locked doors he wasn’t allowed to open.
He told himself it didn’t matter. Love meant trust, and trust meant patience. So he kissed her forehead and let the questions rest.
For now.
The love between them became a storm disguised as calm. To outsiders, they were perfect: the couple who held hands in traffic, who laughed like they shared a private language, who danced together in kitchens with music no one else could hear.
But deep inside, Chike sensed it — a fragility, a hairline crack in the glass of their happiness. And though he didn’t want to admit it, some part of him feared the day it would shatter.
Still, he chose not to see it. Instead, he memorized her smile, her scent, the way her head fit into the hollow of his shoulder. He built his days around her voice, his nights around her absence.
One evening, as they lay on the rooftop of his cousin’s apartment in Yaba, the city stretching wide beneath them, Amara turned to him and whispered, “Promise me something.”
“Anything,” Chike replied, without hesitation.
“Promise me you won’t stop fighting for us. No matter what.”
The words caught him off guard. He searched her eyes, but they held only sincerity — and a hint of fear. He pulled her close, kissed her hair, and whispered against her skin, “I promise.”
She sighed, as though relieved. But deep inside, a tiny part of Chike wondered why she needed that promise at all.
If only he had known.
If only he had asked.
Because promises, like love, are easy to give when you don’t yet know the cost.
And for Chike, the cost would be everything.
KinQ.K.c_23 
Leave a comment